


Ekleipsis

by Tiamat_Corruptor_of_Elves



Series: Ekleipsis [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Forced Seduction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magic, Sexual Slavery, Shapeshifting, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-24 01:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 68,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9694391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiamat_Corruptor_of_Elves/pseuds/Tiamat_Corruptor_of_Elves
Summary: Alva Ahayrre is a Creedan nobleman and a courtier, a beautiful and frivolous redhead, who is sent on an important mission to the Wild Steppe. There he meets a barbarian chief Kintaro - strong, dusky, assertive warrior who is interested in him very much. But Alva himself is more interested in a captive elf which he has been given as a gift.Alva has mixed feeling about both of those gorgeous men - a wild barbarian and a refined elf. He doesn't know that soon his love life will become very complicated...One of the best known original m/m romances in Russia, loved by many.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Updated simultaneously with [](https://www.wattpad.com/user/tiamat-press)Wattpad, one small piece of text at a time, so you might want to wait until the whole chapter is published.  
>  There are 9 chapters, each of them contains a complete piece of the plot, and they could be divided into three books. I'm still working on how to present it best. Please, support the work with your comments!
> 
> [](https://pp.userapi.com/c627722/v627722362/6fd1/zT2L0xwWx6g.jpg)

**1.**

“Proud men hasten not. We shall have a big hunt, games, dances and a feast to honor you as befits an envoy of the great King of the North. Let us talk business after the feast, noble Alva Ahayrre.”

Alva nodded and tried to hide his disappointment. He was at the Essanti camp as the ambassador of the king, Daronghi Dancennou. He wanted the nomads’ help in fighting the Enqins, who recently were raiding Creede’s southern borders. Two weeks of the journey to the steppes had been dull, and now Alva itched to start negotiations. Unfortunately, Kintaro, the Essanti chieftain, seemed to want the exact opposite. Alva did not like this at all. No doubt Kintaro suspected why the “envoy of the great King of the North” had come. Bet he was just stalling before he refused outright. Or maybe he was working out how to make the refusal polite. Comes out to the same thing in the end. 

For the next two weeks, Chevalier Ahayrre barely left the saddle. The nomads clearly expected him to participate in everything. Alva took part in the Essanti’s big hunt. They rushed all over the steppe on their huge mounts, and Alva’s Verlown thoroughbred could barely keep up. They slaughtered bison and deer by the hundreds. They camped at nightfall, gorged on seared meat, sang and danced in the firelight, staged races and swordfights, wrestled, and fell asleep right on the grass without even bothering to set up the tent. 

By the end of the second week, Alva could barely stay on his feet. He still jumped into every fight, however; he felt his northerner’s pride demanded it. He was a decent swordsman and the uncouth nomads had cheered him on. He rode well too; it was not said for nothing in the capital that Chevalier Ahayrre had been born in the saddle. Still, Alva hardly liked the brutish pursuits. He thought himself a poet and a diplomat more than a warrior, so he heaved a sigh of relief when the Essanti finally returned to their camp. There, slaves and servants had already prepared for the feast. 

**2.**

At the feast, Alva sat on Kintaro’s right. This was a very good sign, as only a choice few ever got the honour. Alva’s wine was poured by a good-looking dark-eyed slave youth, stark naked, and Alva wondered lazily whether he might get over his aversion to inept lovemaking and filthy habits of the steppe-dwellers, at least for tonight. With a sigh, he decided that he could not. Chevalier Ahayrre fancied the kind of delicacy and charm that was clearly beyond the nomads. The very first Essanti warrior who had crawled into his tent at night, began by yanking off his pants and setting his greedy mouth on Alva, like a starving man gulping down a piece of bread. Alva was polite, but firm. He kicked the visitor out. All the others, who, in the Essanti tradition, offered themselves to the chieftain’s guest, met with the same fate. Though, come to think of it, some had been beddable enough. 

Alva looked reflectively at the crowd partying by the fires. They were certainly a handsome race. Tall, slender, copper-skinned; high cheekbones, narrow faces and slanted eyes, long black hair worn loose or braided. Many youths wore nothing but loincloths, showing off their strong muscled bodies without an ounce of fat, hardened by the harsh life out here. If only they washed at least once a month and were a little less vulgar. Then Alva might not say no to a roll on the grass. He was only twenty seven, famous for being sexually voracious and did not discriminate between men and women. In fact, that is precisely why he had been sent to the nomads whose ways were well known. 

Too bad the Trianess court was into modesty and fidelity for the past few years. The glamorous Chevalier Ahayrre was even finding himself with a dearth of partners, not something he had experienced since the age of fifteen. So at first he was only too happy to go on this mission. But why, oh, why, had no-one warned him about the stinking pelts, the greasy hands wiped without the help of napkins (not that there were any napkins) or the hideous smell of fermented mare’s milk the nomads drank by the pitcher and called kumiss. The Essanti also seemed completely unfamiliar with the concept of using water to wash. 

At first, Alva wondered how they managed to hunt. The way they stank, all the animals would run away from them. But over the past few weeks Alva witnessed the process in every gory detail: before the hunt, the Essanti would strip and smear themselves with mud, head to toe. Yuck! Alva shuddered, remembering the vile sight. Not surprising that none of the handsome filthy youths had stirred him. 

He caught himself staring, sighed and looked away from Kintaro. The Essanti chief resembled a young god. At least, he was built like one. He was younger than Alva, but had been already chosen chief on account of his valour. Alva Ahayrre had never seen Kintaro in battle, but seeing him hunt and fight the others was enough to know that he was an unrivalled rider and swordsman. 

The Essanti prized fighting skills and physical perfection above everything else. This made sense, as it was the chieftain who led the army into the battle and fought at its forefront. Alva wondered if Kintaro might be interested in something more intimate, and if that was why he delayed the negotiations. Maybe here it was customary to carry out diplomatic missions in bed. Fine, thought Alva, he would get over his fastidiousness for the sake of his country’s glory and Kintaro’s looks. He could always close his eyes, spread his legs and think of Creede. Being pissed drunk would help too. 

Not that Kintaro made any overtures, even if he occasionally cast sultry glances at Alva. Even now, when the Chevalier raised his head, he was caught by the Chief’s insistent gaze. 

“Are you enjoying the feast, valiant Alva Ahayrre?” he asked. The question was coupled with a lewd once-over. 

“The feast is splendid, valiant Kintaro,” answered Alva ceremoniously. He noted that he had been promoted from “noble” to “valiant,” also a good sign. He must have acquitted himself well during the hunt and the fighting trials. 

Kintaro nodded at the cup-bearing slave. “Do you like him? You can take him into your tent.” 

“Thank you, but I am not in the mood.” 

“Perhaps it is women you prefer. I can order one or two fetched for you.” 

Alva pictured their women and felt sick. “I thank you for the generous offer, but must decline as well. I am not in the mood for women today either.” 

Kintaro’s face remained impassive, and Alva could not tell how his obstinacy was received. The Chief had gone on staring at Alva for a bit, then shrugged and turned away. 

Alva went back to contemplating the feast. Wine, kumiss and hooch flowed freely; bison carcasses roasted over the fires and were gradually getting stripped to the bone. In places, half-naked warriors were kissing and groping. Alva suspected that the feast would soon turn into an orgy. He sincerely hoped to slip away before the party was in full swing, otherwise he would not be safe from the drunken lust. He might have diplomatic immunity, but it would hardly extend this far. He might also have a layer or two of magical protection, but it would generally work against an attack on his life, not his virtue. 

Thank heaven Essanti did not rape. A woman or a slave would be considered nothing more than an object, so they would be used, not raped. A warrior of equal prowess, on the other hand, had to agree to lovemaking explicitly. Just as well, or Alva’s hoity-toity ways would have gotten him into trouble long ago. He could handle a street-fight, and was a match for any five thugs in one go. But the rabble-rousers he’d toss aside like trash did not even compare to the war-hardened Essanti. With a slight shudder Alva realized that he would be powerless before Kintaro’s steely strength. 

The nomads had to find the North’s ambassador very attractive. Alva was delicate, slim, with small hands and feet and sun-kissed skin. His green eyes were clear emeralds, and wild flame-colored curls fell over his shoulders. Of course, he was no longer the fifteen-year old boy who once bewitched the Trianess court, but he still liked what he saw in the mirror. His numerous lovers were still generous with compliments. 

Alva was getting fed up. Mainly, he was tired of exercising self-restraint in the midst of this free-for-all. The bronzed bodies looked surprisingly attractive in the flickering firelight. Alva was far enough away, and neither stench nor filth bothered him. The lengthy abstinence of the two-week journey and the following two weeks of camp life was getting to Alva. He was desperate now to wrap up the negotiations and return to Trianess. He did not have a lover at the moment, but Chevalier Amargo Aguirre was ardently courting him. Alva knew that the handsome fortyish courtier would quickly persuade him to surrender. 

Thinking hard of cold showers, Alva glanced vaguely at the men around him and sipped his wine. Later, much later, he often went back to this moment, when a sea of tanned bodies writhed before him and he had no premonition of what would happen next, when the crowd parted to reveal a figure crouched by one of the tents. 

**3.**

Later, much later, he wondered what had caught his attention. Was it the glowing white skin, with its shades of silver and mother-of-pearl that gleamed even through the dirt? This slave, curled up by the post, had his arms wrapped around him, as if cold, even though one of the big fires gave off enough heat to make the nomads glisten with sweat. His head drooped; his long hair obscured his face. The dust and mud hid their colour, but Alva guessed it to be blond. He did not see clearly, but assumed that the slave wore a collar and chain that attached him to the post. 

Alva craved to see his face, hardly knowing why. Without further thinking, he pointed the slave out to Kintaro. “Valiant chief, who is this man, and why is he in chains?” asked Alva. 

“A prisoner,” said Kintaro carelessly. He called over one of his men, and nodded to fetch the slave. “We caught him on the Teraisa Plain by the Great Forest. He is one of the Ancient Race.” 

“An elf? You have caught an elf?” cried Alva, shocked. 

“There were five of them, and each killed five of ours before dying. This one we caught alive. He is brave and he fought well. Now my warriors can enjoy his lovely body.” 

Alva was appalled. “If he fought as bravely as you say, you could have spared him the degradation. You should have killed him right away, if only out of respect for his courage.” 

Kintaro looked surprised. “On the contrary, we had honoured him. To become a slave is nobler than tending cattle like women or dying prisoner after the battle. We believe that when you share a bed with a warrior, you share in his skill and prowess as well. This slave will not go ignored.” 

Alva could not stop looking, as the elf was dragged through the crowd towards him. Head bowed and swaying slightly, the elf followed the nomad listlessly, hands still wrapped around his chest, as if trying to hide from the leers. He was completely naked, and Alva felt a pang when he noticed how the elf was starved and gaunt, his body scratched and bruised. If the Essanti were so brutish even with those they wanted to seduce, they must have been unimaginably worse to a slave. 

The prisoner was thrown down before him. Alva, without a second’s hesitation, reached out and lifted the captive’s chin to look into his face. 

He often went back to this moment as well. He even tried to put his first impression into verse, but always finished by tearing up the sheet. It came out trite and bland, Alva’s celebrated poetic gift failing him. He was looking upon beauty incarnate. The face of the captive elf, however gaunt and void of lively hues, was of stunning perfection. Alva hardly dared to think how the elf would look on a good day, joyful and happy (assuming the elves knew how to be joyful and happy). God Almighty, his face and his whole body seemed to give off a silvery light in the descending darkness! 

Alva was mesmerized and could not stop staring at the long beautiful eyes fringed by heavy gleaming eyelashes, at the lovely bow of lips the pink of hyacinth petals; the lips that had been bruised, but had remained irresistible. These lips were made for kisses, thought Alva. The elf’s skin was pale and delicate; it showed recently healed scars. Alva felt a stab of pity. Pity and anger. He knew that he could not allow himself to be prejudiced. The Essanti’s customs were what they were, and their cruelty did not discriminate. As for the elves, they had cut down whole nations in their time, and they were no friends to humans. But, a poet and an artist, Alva was still furious. How could anyone tarnish this perfect form that had met with nothing but adoration before the ill-fated brush with the nomads? 

He lifted the elf’s face still higher, to look into his eyes. They were ... like molten silver. They also looked empty and deadened now, but Alva would swear these eyes could be luminous like the stars at night. But who would ever see these starry eyes, except the gods of the Underworld, where the elf was likely heading in the next few months. His lifeless gaze and blank face unmistakably showed that he gave up on life and it was now draining away. 

“What is your name?” asked Alva softly. 

Elf was silent as if not hearing. His eyelashes never stirred. Kintaro answered in his place. “He does not speak the Common tongue. If we had not heard him call to his friends during the battle, we would have thought him mute. He never answers.” 

“Wonder why,” thought Alva bitterly. Out loud his said, with only a mild interest in his voice, “I would not have thought the Essanti made a custom of tormenting their prisoners.” 

The chieftain shrugged and spoke matter-of-factly, “A slave’s mettle must be broken. When we captured him, we set up a challenge: whoever got him to cry first, got to have him. My warriors know how to inflict pain, but the elf did not make a sound, so we gave it up. He cried only once, when a man took him for the first time.” 

Alva felt ill. He imagined only too easily how it went and what an immortal must have felt when he was ground into dirt and raped, as if the capture and the tortures were not enough. If you added to that the how the Ancient Race thought sodomy a deadly sin, the elf’s horror and revulsion were beyond imagining. 

Alva prayed that his face expressed only curiosity when he turned to Kintaro and said, “Noble chief, your slave will not survive this treatment for long. Perhaps you would agree to sell him to me? When I take my new servant to the capital, everyone will be impressed with the might and good fortune of the Essanti who have managed to capture an elf.” 

Kintaro smiled pleasantly. It seemed the suggestion had flattered him. “He is yours then, I give him to you.” Just as Alva was going to sigh with relief, the chieftain added, “But I do have one condition. Show me and my people that you value our gift. Make this captive yours, right here, right now.” 

Alva gaped. “Did I understand you correctly? You want me to take him right here, in front of everyone?” 

Kintaro nodded, fixing Alva with his stare. Alva did not like this look at all — it was filled with distrust. “This is an Essanti custom. You shared our food and shelter, so you have to share in our pleasure. Everyone should know joy at this feast.”  
“But of course,” thought Alva, “what else to expect. Their idea of fun is watching young men fight and then copulate.” 

He tried to dissuade the chief. “Look, noble Kintaro, it is not our custom to make love in public. I do value your gift and my gratitude is immense. Let me go to my tent to enjoy my new slave.” 

Kintaro’s iron fingers clutched at Alva’s shoulder. The chief brought him close and hissed into his ear. “You listen to me, northerner. I know that you are good in battle, and are worthy to speak for your King. But many warriors you have turned down doubt that you are man enough. I will not deal with a eunuch. Prove your manhood.” 

Alva instantly felt a hot rush of blood to his cheeks. So they were testing him these two weeks! And now he had to show them that he was a stud. He knew that Kintaro intended neither to insult nor to humiliate him: he genuinely wanted to know that Alva was unblemished in every way, or to deal with him would bring bad luck. But Alva had not expected things to get this far. This was no longer about saving the lovely creature, his mission’s success was at stake. Was Creede worth the villainy? There was no other word for what he was being asked to do. Raping the wounded tormented elf in plain sight of the obscenely drunk crowd! 

He looked again at the captive’s expressionless face. The elf had blocked out the outside world. He was barely conscious of what was happening to him. Perhaps what he had been through drove him mad. He had been ravaged hundreds of times, so one more nameless rapist would mean nothing to him! He was on an inexorable path to death, and who could save him but Alva? After all, thought Alva, it’s not as if he was being asked to do something unnatural. He had made love in front of others before (though not quite as many others). And, suddenly, filled with overwhelming shame, Alva realized that he wanted this silver elf, like he had never wanted anyone before. 

At Kintaro’s sign, someone yanked the prisoner’s collar and made him go on his hands and knees. As soon as Alva looked at the slim hips and small milky-white buttocks, he was hard — all too apparent in the tight-fitting pants. Alva saw Kintaro stare at his crotch and grin. With grim determination, Alva Ahayrre began to strip.

 **4.**

He remembered the rest in bits and pieces. The Essanti roared when he dropped the last piece of clothing and rose in the firelight. He knew what they were seeing. Everybody who saw him naked compared him, with surprising lack of originality, to a golden statue. This was Alva’s last coherent thought. Then he was past caring; he saw nothing but the helpless body of his unasked-for victim, as if everything else had disappeared. 

Alva turned the elf over on his back, and bent over him, intoxicated by the smell of his skin, miraculously free of the stench of the Essanti camp. Surrendering to temptation, he kissed the irresistible inflamed lips, as gently and tenderly as he could, careful not to hurt. Perhaps he was wrong, but the elf’s mouth seemed to move slightly in response, and something akin to curiosity flickered in his dull eyes. Though this must have been just an illusion, the very thought excited Alva, and he took the elf using his own spit as a lubricant. He made every effort to keep himself in check, he did his best to be slow and gentle, as if taking a young boy, a virgin, oh, god, he does look like a boy, eighteen at most, he could be any age, a thousand even… But the sound Alva heard — a slight moan escaping the bloodless hyacinth petals of his lips — was definitely not an illusion. He must have hurt him somehow. But the elf had not cried under torture, why was Alva making him cry out? 

He could no longer think about anything, as the sweeping wave of desire dragged him towards the finish. He came, clutching at the elf and kissing him deliriously, as if they had just made love. In a few moments, the world resumed, and Alva felt a strong hand lifting him to his feet. 

“Take the prisoner to the tent of our esteemed guest. None but him is to touch the elf henceforth,” ordered Kintaro. Then the chief grabbed Alva and kissed him. 

Unsurprised, Alva realized that Kintaro had already dropped his clothes and had a full hard-on. Alva was dizzy and swaying drunkenly, but wine had nothing to do with it. He was still aroused, and his lips returned Kintaro’s demanding kiss on their own, while his arms twined around the chief’s neck. 

Kintaro laughed. “I should still ask you, northerner, as our customs demand. Will you be mine tonight?” 

“Haven’t got much choice, have I?” said Alva hoarsely, wrapping himself around the bronzed warrior. He could no longer stand on his own. 

Quivering with anticipation, he let himself be thrown on the pelts and gave himself over to Kintaro’s brutish caress. He whimpered shamelessly, like the cheapest of whores. In a few minutes, the chief flattened Alva with his heavy body, and took him brazenly, making Alva shudder from pleasure spiced with pain. The part of Alva that remained sober told him that wine and the pretty elf had done it — Alva was mad with lust and would be easy prey. If anyone wanted him after the Essanti chief, Alva would be powerless to refuse. 

Kintaro, however, had no plans to share. Turned out the first bout was just a prelude. Then he took Alva to his tent. Evidently, Kintaro was indefatigable. In between caresses, when his brain turned briefly back on, Alva wondered if Kintaro had been made chief for that very reason, and nearly burst into hysterical laughter. 

He let Kintaro do what he wanted to him, hoping to find oblivion in the relentless flood of the barbarian’s passion. The elf’s face stood before his inner gaze, he remembered kissing the elf, touching him, feeling the quiver of the silver body as he penetrated its tight cool depths. Alva could not shake off the obsession, even as the Essanti’s mouth and strong hands besieged him, hurting and leaving love bites and bruises. Liquid fire flowed through his veins and his loins burned with the insatiable desire that he was powerless to stem. It could only be dulled somewhat, when the wild nomad ripped into him, growling, nails raking Alva’s shoulders, and the tsunami of his orgasm shook Alva’s entire body, temporarily clouding his senses still filled with the memory of the prisoner elf. 

**5.**

It was nearly morning when the Essanti had finally let go of Alva, and only after he was utterly exhausted. He fell asleep, still holding his lover possessively. Alva crawled out of Kintaro’s embrace and staggered out of the tent. Every bit that could hurt in a human body hurt. 

The sun was rising. The fires have blown out; light smoke hung over the coals. The horses, gently whinnying, grazed among the tents. Alva had no idea where his clothes went and was not going to look for them. The way to his tent was paved with naked bodies locked in embrace, and he had to step over them. He reached his tent and entered. 

The elf was sitting by the back wall, with his chin on his knees. He must have been dozing, but, as Alva approached, lifted his head to look. The first rays of the sun shone through the opened flap of the tent and lit up the elf’s face. It was as beautiful as Alva had remembered it, and just as impassive. Only the elf’s gaze seemed to grow timid for a moment, as if the elf had suddenly realized that he was entirely at his new master’s mercy. 

Alva stepped forward. Whether it was something in Alva’s eyes, or the sight of his manhood, still at half-mast, but the elf lowered his eyes, and flushed the barest of pinks. Then, with a soft sigh, he moved over, turned his back to Alva, and lay down on the pelts, his head buried in his hands and his legs spread apart. The sight of the elf, resigned and submissive, filled Alva with an overwhelming desire, even though he had never longed to dominate anyone before. He realized that soon his dark side would take over, unleashing the base instinct to attack, ravage, sate the lust. Alva bit down on his lip, hard, until he drew blood, and the pain sobered him. He turned and rushed back out of the tent. 

He only got as far as the well on the outskirts of the camp. A heavy stone lid sealed the well from dust. Alva moved it aside with difficulty, and poured bucketfuls of freezing water over himself until he fairly shivered, lust forgotten. 

He came back with a full pitcher, took the elf by the hand, and brought him out of the tent. He gestured at the elf to clean his face and wipe off the dirt with a wet towel. The elf was clearly uncomfortable under Alva’s gaze, but at the moment Alva felt only boundless pity. In the growing light, Alva could clearly see the marks of the nomads’ brutality on the elf’s marble body, and felt tears welling up. He was ashamed of his recent desires, of what he did to the elf, ashamed of himself and of humanity in general. Pity that the memory of humiliation cannot be wiped as readily as the dirt. Inside the tent, Alva sat down the prisoner before him and rubbed a healing balm into his cuts and wounds. The elf’s face remained the usual frozen mask, but his tense body visibly relaxed. He seemed to understand that a new ordeal might be at least delayed. 

Chevalier Ahayrre tried to remember at least a few words in the Ancient tongue, but was stymied. He longed to tell the elf that he had nothing to fear from Alva, that he was safe from now on. Alva hoped that the elf would realize it eventually on his own, if he was still capable of understanding reality and had not chosen to dwell entirely in the realm of illusions. 

Alva chose a simple tunic and pants of his for the prisoner and gestured for him to dress. The elf obeyed. Alva finally covered himself too, pulled out a comb, and brushed out his tangled red hair. Damn right they were tangled. Kintaro had had fun twirling Alva’s hair all night long. Alva winced, feeling a bite on his neck. The Essanti were not famed for their temperament for nothing. 

The elf glanced at Alva from underneath his long eyelashes. Alva saw that look, and held out the comb. The elf took it carefully, as if seeing one for the first time, and fingered it awkwardly. Then he tried to grip it, just as awkwardly, making Alva laugh and take the comb away. Alva remembered tales of the streams in the Great Wood; swimming where, it was said, de-tangled the hair and even wove it into braids or complicated hairdos. Either there was some truth to this story, or the Ancient Race used something other than a comb. 

Alva got behind the elf and began to pull the comb through the thick strands of his long hair. He carefully held the strands at the root, and tried not to yank. Then he attempted to rub the dust off one lock and was rewarded with seeing the true color shine through — it was pearly silver, the color of moonlight. He also saw the famed pointy elven ears, concealed by tangled hair before. They seemed oddly touching. 

Alva drew the comb through the elf’s hair so delicately, it was almost a caress. It was easy to forget oneself, absorbed in this peaceful task, and imagine that it was a morning after a night of love … Chevalier Ahayrre sighed. An elf loving a human? Hell would freeze over sooner. The Ancients hated people too much, and with good reason, Alva had to admit, especially in this particular case. Stopping this depressing line of thought with an effort, he put aside the comb and gazed approvingly at his handiwork. “Now then, you look almost like a human being,” said Alva and laughed realizing how stupid he must have sounded. 

He left the tent again, and came back from scavenging by the fires, with a few feast leftovers and some drinking water. The elf turned away from the charred meat at first, but, when Chevalier Ahayrre fell on the meat hungrily, joined him. The elf ate slowly and daintily. He looked like a prince, and belonged right at the royal court. Alva could not help admiring him. 

After the meal, thinking that he had amply demonstrated his good intentions, Alva decided to make friends. In the cross-cultural way of linguistically challenged, he pointed a finger at himself and proclaimed, “Alva Ahayrre.” He then pointed at the captive and raised his eyebrows in question. The elf merely lowered his eyelids and turned away. That was also a cross-cultural expression, that lacked only a contemptuous mien to spell, to the dejected Alva, a “Go to hell, pal.” 

**6.**

The noise of the waking camp was already coming from the outside. Alva thought he would at least look for the clothing he had cast off yesterday and maybe retrieve his belt that he had grown used to. He also felt strangely hurt that the elf refused to even say his name. 

“Well, what did you expect? That he'd be all over you, especially after yesterday?” Alva asked himself, bitterly. Perhaps introducing themselves to humans was taboo for the elves. Could be lots of reasons. None of which helped deal with the bitterness he felt. 

As Alva scrabbled around for his belt, where he had sat (and, frankly, lain) with the chieftain the night before, Kintaro, buck naked, crawled out of his tent on all fours. He rose, stretched and went behind the tent to relieve himself. Then Kintaro returned and guzzled whatever wine remained in the pitcher. He looked fit and well-rested, with no signs of fatigue or hang-over; particularly impressive given how much he had drunk, how little he had slept, and how creative he had been in his other activities. 

“Good morning, noble Essanti chief,” grumbled Alva. He went on digging through the pelts that covered the mound around the fire. “Maybe today we can finally get to talking about my mission.” 

Not wasting any words, Kintaro threw Alva over his shoulder and carried him towards the tent. Alva was too stunned to object; “Bloody hell” was all he could manage. There was no mistaking the chief's intentions: you could hang a saddle on his hard-on. 

When the Essanti put him down on the floor and began to kiss, unbuttoning Alva's clothes, Chevalier Ahayrre protested angrily. Dodging the greedy lips and hands, Alva hissed: “Now, you listen to me, chief. I have had enough. Very amusing, and all, but you promised to get down to business after the feast. I demand that you hear my King's offer, and give me your response as quickly as possible.” 

Kintaro let him go and sat back on his heels. He was smiling and his teeth gleamed in the gloom of the tent. 

“I know why you came,” he said, condescendingly. “Your King is smart, he wants others to fight his battles. Tell him that the Essanti will march with him on the Enqins. We’ll take the spoils, and will let your King's generosity determine what else we get.” He laughed unexpectedly and put a hand against Alva's cheek. “I doubt he'd be generous enough to hand you over to me. I might agree to serve him forever, if I could have you.” 

Ahayrre lowered his eyes and remained silent, not knowing how to react. “Tell me, do you have a lover?” asked the Essanti, with guileless curiosity. 

Alva sighed, and answered honestly, “No. Not for a long time.” 

“Have you had lots of lovers?” 

The young courtier did not know whether to laugh or take offence at the questioning. “I never bothered to count. Lots, probably,” Alva smiled and shrugged. 

“Was I better than them, or worse?” Kintaro’s worrying was almost childish. 

Alva laughed out loud and said, “You are the stud to end all studs, Essanti chief. Never met anyone like you.” 

“Did you like it, last night?” 

“Yes,” (Alva was utterly sincere.) 

“Do you want me? Want me to take you and have my way with you again?” Kintaro's gaze became heavy, weighed with the primitive and undisguised desire, and Alva felt naked. 

To Alva, the Essanti chief embodied the abandoned sexuality, heady and overpowering, and a strange magnetism Alva was powerless to resist. He was warm and close, unlike the aloof Ancient who would not even say his name. Kintaro openly lusted after his guest, and Alva had to admit he was flattered. He thought the nomad awfully attractive, though not nearly as refined, of course, as the elf or even as some of the men judged handsome by the Trianess court. But he possessed the wild beauty of a beast, and the force of his desire was blinding and maddening. 

Alva licked his dry lips and answered, “Yes.” 

**7.**

In the next three days, Alva hardly went near his own tent. He spent all his time with Kintaro. The chief seemed tireless, and he could not get enough of his green-eyed lover’s body. They tried every position, and every kind of lovemaking, except anything that would make Kintaro the passive partner.

Alva had long understood that the chieftain was only willing to dominate. Whether because it would be unbecoming a nomad chieftain, or because that's what Kintaro preferred, but he never went down on Alva and never let himself be penetrated. The northerner never asked any questions, and submitted willingly. In spite of his aggressive appearance, the Essanti was gentle enough, and never hurt Alva ... much.

Whenever Alva took food to his prisoner, he tried not to look at him. He felt wounded by the elf’s haughty indifference. The young man still wanted the elf, and could not stand the idea that the elf found him repulsive. He had no desire to rape, he dreamed that this lovely body would answer to his touch, the lips would form endearments. Yet, he understood clearly that this was not to be. He might as well have hankered after the Moon. Alva swore never to touch the elf again, and was determined to stick to his promise at any price.

On the fourth day after the momentous feast, a messenger bird (flown at the behest of Nero Nekrossa, the King's mage) came for Alva. Not surprisingly, the King was enquiring after the mission’s outcome. Alva wrote a short note, where he told the King that he was coming back with good news, and readied for the return trip. He worried that Kintaro would not let him go, but no. The Essanti were said to love easily and part lightly, lengthy liaisons being rare among them.

Kintaro gave Alva three horses — for him, for the prisoner and for the gifts and provisions. He and his men escorted Alva for a day beyond the camp. They spent the last night together, and Alva’s screams and moans filled the steppe at night. At dawn, the Essanti and the Creedan said their last passionate good-byes; Kintaro leapt in the saddle and rode off with his warriors, never looking back. Alva turned his small caravan to the Creedan border. He planned to complete his mission first and then think about returning the elf to his kin.

Alva's lovely prisoner was docile when he got in the saddle in the morning and dismounted at night. He rode listlessly, evidently not caring where he was being taken. Alva saw that traveling on horseback was hard for the elf, and that the pain sometimes clouded his consciousness. Alva realized that the elf had suffered more than was apparent at first glance, and that he was taking a turn for the worse.

When Alva accidentally touched the elf’s hand, he was shocked to feel the normally cool skin burn with fever. He had heard that the elves did not suffer human ailments, and that they sickened and died only from grief. This seemed likely now. The change of fate made the elf come back to life, but the new-found clarity of perception brought with it memories that must have seemed so awful to him that he longed to die.

At the next stop, the elf fainted and toppled, unconscious, from his horse into Alva’s arms. “I will not let him die,” Alva thought, distraught. He held the light body to him, smoothing the loose hair back and kissing the feverish lips, all good resolutions momentarily forgotten.

He pulled out his most prized possession, carried on all journeys: a Scroll of Magic Portal. He broke the seal and read out the incantation. The scroll crumbled into dust, the space compressed and then burst into a rainbow oval. He was looking at the portal into Fanneshtou – the Temple of All Gods, one of the oldest buildings in Pandeia, which housed mages, monks, sages, soothsayers and healers, and where every traveler was sure of getting help (provided, of course, that he could pay for it).

Alva checked that the horses were well tethered. He was not going to unsaddle them, as he planned to be back within the hour. The elf came to, but was still too weak. Holding the elf in his arms, Alva stepped through the portal.

**8.**

The Fanneshtou entrance hall was always busy. Alva had been here often, and knew who to talk to and whom to bribe, to get seen faster. He was taken to the chamber, where Meda Moreyli, Master of the Healers Guild (a Creedan by birth, judging by his double name), was already waiting for him.

“Welcome to Fanneshtou,” he said, ceremoniously, “What brings the highborn Chevalier Alva Ahayrre of Trianess here?”

The highborn chevalier thought angrily, “One hell of a stupid question! Like he does not see an unconscious elf in my arms.”

He sat his burden down in the nearest chair, and said, “This is an elf. He had been hurt and beaten. Heal him, and I will pay well.”

Moreyli came closer, put out a bony arm, turned the elf’s face to him, looked into his eyes, touched the forehead, put aside the hair to see the ears, and turned down the shirt collar to reveal a scar.

The fear that flared in the captive’s eyes was so evident, Alva felt burned by it. He guessed right away that the elf feared being sold as a slave. “Why don't you check his muscles and poke into his mouth, bastard quack,” he thought, annoyed, but said nothing.

“I am reluctant to disappoint you, Chevalier, but I cannot assure you that our Guild possesses the skill to heal a person of the Ancient Race,” said Moreyli.

Frowning, Alva tried to choose his words carefully. “Fanneshtou is renowned for its capable healers. I have faith that you can triumph over any ill, physical or spiritual. The cost is no object.” With these words, he dumped a good pile of gold on the table; it was more than a half of what he had on him.

Meda Moreyli drummed his fingers, rubbed his chin and looked at the elf again. “I am not sure,” he said. "It would take a great deal of effort. There are special potions to be made, to heal all these marks of ... hmmm ... careless use. The patient is badly injured, in body and spirit. The treatment would be difficult.”

Alva sighed with relief. He realized the healer was just haggling and added the rest of the gold in his purse to the pile already on the table. He would have let himself be bled, if they needed his blood for the healing.

“Chevalier Ahayrre is very generous, but...”

“Not another word, oh, wisest Meda Moreyli!” Alva unclasped a ruby bracelet and tossed it on the table as well. “I will be back in two weeks, and I expect to see my...” he hesitated, “my friend back on his feet. I hope that there are those who speak the Ancient tongue here, because he does not speak the Common. And one more thing...”

After a pause, Alva added, “Once he starts to feel better, do not keep him prisoner, but do limit his movements and put a spell on him, so that the noble elf does not leave the confines of Fanneshtou until the treatment is complete.”

Moreyli smirked in understanding. “Chevalier need not worry. Your... charge will not leave the temple before you return.”

Two novices picked up the elf by the arms and pretty much carried him away. Chevalier Ahayrre took his leave of the Guild Master and returned through the portal back to the Essanti steppes, hundreds of leagues away from the Fanneshtou. The portal, mission accomplished, instantly flickered out. Alva got back in the saddle and went on to Trianess.

**9.**

He thought about the elf the entire two weeks of the return journey. He swayed in the saddle and remembered the scent of his skin, the silken hair, the eyes, framed by the glimmering silver lashes, the slim chiseled body... but, most of all, he remembered the elf's astonishment during their kiss. It was as if, for a moment, Alva had reached beyond the walls the elf had raised around himself. That soft moan that escaped him when the human who was trying to save him, had hurt him. Alva would have done anything to please the elf, he wanted to bring him to Trianess, put him up in Alva’s house, surround with every luxury, grant his every wish! He was going mad whenever he imagined the elf in his bedroom — smiling, happy, overwhelmed with desire... “Hell, I've got a vivid imagination,” thought Alva wryly.

At the court, everyone was thrilled to see him. The courtiers had waited impatiently for Alva’s return. This was not because they cared for the news of the mission (it was secret anyway), but because Alva Ahayrre was well loved in the capital. Old friends threw a party in his honour, but he slipped away early, pleading exhaustion after a lengthy journey. Truth be told, he just did not feel like partying and flirting. Everybody kept asking him about the trip, but there was little he could say, as only the elf filled his thoughts. In short, the general opinion was that Chevalier Ahayrre had been supremely rude to the cream of the capital: as soon as he was back in Trianess, he had left again, and no-one knew where he was headed this time.

Also, nobody knew that Alva had precipitously sold two antique vases from his collection, and dumped an obscene amount of cash on a Scroll of Magic Portal. If anybody could get into his locked study, they would have seen something resembling a rainbow-shaded lens by one of the walls. But even if they could guess where the Chevalier was at present, the purpose of his Fanneshtou visit would have remained a mystery to them.

In the meantime, Alva paced impatiently around the chamber where he had been received by Meda Moreyli. He knew already that the prisoner was well now, and that nothing threatened his life or his health. He had asked to be taken to the elf’s quarters, and was now waiting for brother Markhee, who spoke the Ancient Tongue. Alva planned to burn his bridges and tell the elf outright that he did not intend to keep him prisoner. He was afraid of himself and of what he might do if he looked even once more into these eyes the color of molten silver.

**10.**

He knocked — not by way of asking permission to enter, but as a warning that he had arrived — came into the room, and stopped so abruptly, that Brother Markhee bumped into him from behind, but Alva did not notice. He was looking at the elf, and the breath caught in his throat.

He had thought the Ancient attractive before, but only a connoisseur of beauty, like Alva, could discern it in a downtrodden creature the elf had been. Now, free of afflictions, all marks of suffering wiped away by the skill of the Fanneshtou healers, the elf was maddeningly, inhumanly dazzling. So dazzling, that Alva had to turn away, unable to stand the heartache.

The monk slipped past Alva and addressed the elf. Alva made out his own name, and knew he was introduced. Moreyli had warned him already that the elf never spoke to the healers, and did not answer any of their questions (though he had complied with everything they had prescribed), so Alva was not expecting a response. But still, unaccountably, the elf’s silence had hurt him again.

The elf stepped back until he was backed up against the wall. His face was cold and immobile, all life concentrated in his shining eyes. They never left Alva’s face, and Alva thought suddenly that the Ancient must be terrified of him. This thought made him feel even worse.

Alva stepped into the chamber and shut the door behind him. Thoughts scattered, he addressed Brother Markhee, “Tell him, I am glad he is well. He is not a prisoner here, but a guest. Shortly, I will take him where he needs to go. He will be reunited with his people.”

The monk spoke the lilting tongue of the Ancient Race. When the monk was done, the elf lost his composure. He buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook. Alva barely suppressed a desire to rush to him and take him into his arms.

The elf lifted his face, and spoke, looking straight at Alva. His voice rang with the silver bells of tears. Chevalier Ahayrre was certain that the soft and lovely voice would now fill his dreams and even his waking, that is, until he went mad with all this unrequited love. “Human kindness is worse than their hatred; it catches us unawares and leaves wounds that would not heal,” translated the monk and added, “this is the elvish expression of gratitude, I think. He is saying now that he would do anything to thank you.”

“There is nothing I need from him,” Alva shook his head, “except I would like to hear his name, if his customs allow it.”

“Ithildin,” the elf answered promptly as soon as Alva’s request was translated for him.

“It means “starmoon” in the Ancient Tongue, my lord,” said the monk, “all their names, both male and female, end in a consonant, and they use a pitch accent, so that …”

“Ask him if he had been treated well in the Temple, and if he has any other wishes.”

“None, except to repay the debt of gratitude, at the pleasure of the noble Lord.”

“My pleasure would be to see him well and happy, tell him that. And tell him that I never wished to harm him, and that I am sorry I have had to … treat him … the way I did; he’ll know what I am talking about. Tell him I was made to do it.”

“He says he knows.”

“How? Does he understand the Common Tongue?”

“No, but he says that your conversation with the nomad chief was clear enough. And that the Lord’s actions were beyond reproach.”

Alva fell silent, not knowing what else to say. Mindlessly, he admired the movement of the lilac lips when Ithildin spoke, the sweep of his thick eyelashes, the thin stroke of his eyebrows, the silver hair tumbling on both sides of his face, the straight shoulders and the narrow waist under a belted tunic, sleeveless and simple, the slim hips and the long legs … He knew that the elf might mind his devouring gaze, but he could not stop.

“Ask him if he is ready to leave. I’ll come for him tomorrow, once the horses are saddled. Tell him we’ll reach the Great Forest within the week.”

The elf nodded.

“He is ready. Now he is saying he no longer needs a translator, and would like me to leave the two of you alone. What is your wish, my lord?” After waiting for an answer in vain, Brother Markhee bowed, and left the room, shutting the door.

“Dear God, what is he going to do?” Alva thought. “No, I shouldn’t … Don’t … I vowed …”

Ithildin took a step forward uncertainly. Then another. And the third. Now he was up against Alva, looking, cautious, into his eyes. His face grew both helpless and determined, and he undid his belt and started unbuttoning his tunic.

Alva should have stopped him immediately, but he was unable to move, unable to make a sound, he just stared, with a single thought pulsing in his head, “It’s a dream … I am dreaming.”

The elf opened his tunic, it dropped to the floor, and Chevalier Ahayrre still stood mesmerized, afraid that, with a single gesture, the dream would vanish. But now Ithildin put his hands on Alva’s shoulders and pressed his lips to Alva’s in an awkward kiss. Then, coming to, Alva moaned, and clasped the elf to him, and covered his face, shoulders and neck with kisses.

Noble protagonists honourably refuse when those they rescue from death offer themselves up in a fit of gratitude. Novels say so, but Alva cannot. Not now, not when the elf is half-nude, when the scent of his skin is so intoxicating, when his cool marble body shivers under the man’s touch.

He pulled off the elf’s pants and took him right by the wall; the elf’s legs were thrown around Alva’s waist, there was no lubricant other than Alva’s spit again, and, again, the elf moaned quietly, with his arms around Alva’s neck, and his head on Alva’s shoulder, but he made no attempt to resist, giving himself over to the mortal.

When Alva came to his senses after the orgasm, they were lying on the floor. Ithildin pressed against him, his face hidden on Alva’s chest. Alva felt his eyes well up with tears of shame and heart-breaking tenderness. He carefully lifted the elf, trying to avoid looking him in the face, brought him to bed, and rushed out, after barely straightening his clothes.

He could hardly see through the tears; he staggered along the Temple halls, bumping into walls and the passer-bys, until he found a secluded corner of the garden. There, he fell face-down on the grass and wept. He got what he wanted, but the Fates have laughed at him. He thought himself vermin; he had bought Ithildin’s favors; the elf had just paid him with his body because he did not want to be in a human’s debt and had nothing else.

“How could I accept it, why?” Alva tormented himself endlessly with the question, and found no answer.

**11.**

They left Fanneshtou in the early morning. They made good progress in a day and constantly hurried their horses. The elf’s impatience was apparent, but Alva also wanted to leave Ithildin quickly and then try to forget him entirely.

At night, Alva deliberately set himself up away from the fire, but only a short time later Ithildin, stark naked, slipped beneath Alva’s blanket. Alva tried to push him away – in vain. At the elf’s touch, Alva’s body was on fire, and passion clouded his mind. Every night, he fell asleep holding Ithildin in his arms, after sating himself. Ithildin was so obedient, pliable, submitting to Alva’s every desire…

Alva felt guilt and remorse when he thought he was acting like a savage, but dark madness descended over him every time he possessed the elf, knowing that every second was bringing their parting closer. He hated himself for this weakness, but did not – could not – resist it. Sometimes, he hated the elf, because the elf made him run amok with lust and lose all self-control. This had never happened to him before, except, maybe, when he was fourteen, in love for the first time and losing his virginity, but he had not been as passionate even back then.

On the sixth day of the journey, they saw from a distance the rising solid wall of the Great Forest, and they reached it on the eighth day. Alva Ahayrre, the brilliant courtier, a famed poet, a revered beauty and the court’s favourite, whose love had never gone unanswered, felt his heart break. He kissed the elf longingly and passionately for the last time, praying that the kiss would last forever. But he had to let go of the sweet lips to take a breath.

The elf lifted his astonishing eyes at Alva, and his face became unreadable again. Then he urged his horse forward. Once a short distance away, he turned, rose in the saddle and called out a brief phrase in his own tongue. Then he drove his horse on, and entered the forest.

Alva stared after him, until the elf disappeared behind the trees. He understood, with merciless clarity, that he would never forget their meeting. He was doomed to this lacerating memory until the end of his days.

His life was eclipsed. And the eclipse bore the name of Ithildin.

_THE END OF CHAPTER 1_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might want to check out [this chapter on Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/371990493) and follow the updates there - it's very friendly for mobile devices, and it's easy to post pictures there, so every little part of the Chapter 1 is adorned with an appropriate piece of fanart done by skilled Russian artists who loved Ekleipsis.
> 
>  
> 
> I will try to post the pictures here as well, but it requires plenty of html-coding, and I'm not sure it would be much appreciated by the readers, seeing as Archive of Our Own is famous for its plain comfortable text mode.


	2. Chapter 2

**1.**

If Alva had ever expected to suffer so much, he would not have gone on this mission, even on pain of displeasing the King and being dismissed from the King’s Guard. Every day without Ithildin was a nightmare.

At first, he was tormented by desire, dreadful in its intensity. Alva’s entire body spasmed whenever he remembered how the beautiful elf submitted to him: eyes closed, sweet lips half-opened, hair damp on his forehead, arms and legs wrapped around the man, clutching him closer as if to merge into one being. Gnashing his teeth in paroxysms of unbearable lust, beset by vivid elf-centered fantasies, Alva tossed on his wide bed and abused himself in vain attempts at relief. A few times, he thought of going to one of the trysting houses Trianess was famed for, and once even reached the door of the Blossom of Desire, but turned back. The thought of anyone but Ithildin touching him, or of being with anyone else, repulsed him.

The day after Alva’s return from Fanneshtou, Chevalier Amargo Aguirre – who only recently was making Alva’s heart flutter – sent him a splendid emerald necklace. Chevalier Ahayrre opened the velvet case absently, shut it indifferently and returned it without bothering to explain. None but Ithildin existed for him.

The usual advances of the court ladies and gentlemen irritated him, old friends were a nuisance, and anyone who flirted with him was plain aggravating. When the other Guardsmen invited him drinking, he always begged off, as he loathed company now. He especially avoided anyone who might pry into his misery and try to talk him out of it.

No flame can burn forever. Eventually, the dreams deserted him, leaving only gloom and desolation. Alva asked the King for a leave of absence and hid from the world. He tried to put his feelings to verse, but could not, and the floor of his study was littered with torn-up scraps of poems and sketches of a face – always the same face. He even tried learning the Ancient Tongue, but progressed poorly, not being exactly fit for diligent study at the moment.

Alva cursed whoever had called him musical, as now it seemed a jibe. He remembered the phrase that the elf had shouted at parting, and had tried translating it first. The translation he got was an “I love you.” Alva thought it a cruel joke, threw the book away and cried. His memory had substituted a few sounds in a very similar “I am grateful to you.”

Days and nights crawled along, and his grief deepened. He got accustomed to drinking wine at night, telling himself it was the best cure for insomnia. Then he started drinking in earnest, getting drunk alone or down in the port amid the rabble – sailors, thieves and harlots. Weeks passed in the fog of drugs and alcohol. Alva lost track of time and sunk into apathy.

**2.**

“Sweetheart, you’ll kill yourself.”

Leitis Lysander sat on the floor by his bed, chin on top of her hands that were folded over the blanket. This way, their eyes were level, and she was looking straight at Alva, sadly and earnestly. She was not disapproving – Alva loved that about Leitis: she never tried to change him or interfere with his life, but she turned up and offered her strong shoulder whenever he needed her most.

What made her leave the Southern border, where her regiment was stationed, and rush to Trianess? It was as if she had sensed her darling Alva was in trouble. Sometimes he believed there was a mystical bond between them – perhaps, before they were born, they had been a brother and sister in another life. Or, perhaps, providence had appointed her Alva’s guardian angel.

Leitis had come in the nick of time again: she went all over the Low-town and extracted Chevalier Ahayrre from a vilest dive, where – for the last two days – he explored the verge of insanity. When she burst into the room, two swords at the ready, Alva was already staked on the next round of craps. The winner would take him first. Alva was dead drunk and stoned to boot, and could not have put up much of a fight, even if he had realized what was happening. Leitis nearly burst into tears at the sight of his pale drawn face with a pinched nose and dark circles under glassy eyes. Cutting through the lecherous crowd, she carried out a barely conscious Alva in her arms, took him home, stuck him under a cold shower and shoved him into bed.

In the morning, when Alva seemed more like his usual self, Leitis forced him to drink a revolting brew (made to an old family recipe) that sobered him, instantly and irrevocably. The new-found sobriety brought memories of a nearly week-long drunken binge that could have ended for him very badly. He shuddered when he understood what Leitis had saved him from. The patrons of that hell-hole would not have stopped at rape. More likely, they would have robbed him, killed him, and tossed his body into a ditch. He would have gotten eternal rest instead of the temporary relief offered by drugs and wine. Alva’s grief was not great enough to make him court death. It just would not let him live.

“Before you drive yourself into the grave, tell me why you are doing it. What ails you, my sweet Allie? It hurts me to see you that way. I know you would have asked for my help if you thought I could help you. But tell me what’s wrong at least, speak your mind!”

“Love you, Lei,” croaked Alva and moved closer, putting his head on her shoulder.

Her very presence filled him with serenity and dulled his pain. She smoothed his hair gently, and kissed the top of his tousled head.

“I love you too, carrot-top. Your knack for getting into trouble compares only to your beauty. So tell me why my best friend has been pickling himself for two months.”

Leitis was the only one he could trust with his secret. But the source of his grief was too painful to discuss, remember or think about …

“Lei, my life is not worth living. I don’t even know how to tell you.”

“You've fallen in love, Allie,” this came as a statement, not a question.

He nodded silently. She had always been perceptive, and now, after years of friendship, knew him nearly as well as she knew herself. Besides, it would not have been difficult to guess, as he had all the symptoms. What would she say once she learned who he fell for?

“Dear God, resisting you would seem inhuman,” Lei’s eyes, the color of summer sky, were filled with sympathy. “It can’t be a courtier or anyone from the capital; who in Trianess would reject Alva Ahayrre?”

Chevalier Ahayrre sighed. “It’s not, exactly, a human,” he said, simply.

Now Leitis, that gallant hero, looked scared. “Do not tell me that it was one of the Ancient Race!”

“That’s exactly what happened, Lei, and all I can do now is go and drown myself, because there is no hope, and it’s been two months that I can’t forget him. And will never forget him, as long as I live.”

Relieved, Alva spilled everything: his mission to the Essanti, meeting Ithildin, their parting. Leitis could listen like nobody else, she could understand, sympathize, even advise … though what kind of advice could she give in his predicament!

“He has probably forgotten all about me already; I am nobody to him, a filthy mortal, one of those who tortured and killed his kin … And I, I remember his every glance, every gesture, every movement, still hear his voice … If you’d see him Lei – that our Maker could mould such beauty! If I were the heavenly orb, I’d stop my course just to gaze at him; if I were a hurricane, I would be stilled at his feet; if I were an ocean I’d part before him, and he would go through me as on dry ground.”

“My poor Allie…” Lei’s voice caught.

She was teary. Though ordinarily it would have been hard to make the tough cavalry commander shed a tear. She hugged him, burying her face in Alva’s red hair, and the two were silent for a long time. Snug against her chest, Alva listened to the beating of her heart and, for the first time in days felt ... not happy, of course, but content and at peace. Leitis spoke first.

“I know how hard it is to have your feelings go unreturned,” she said. “But there is always hope! Maybe fate will bring the two of you together after all.”

Alva only sighed. It was ironic that he had been the object of the only unrequited love in Lei’s life. Their story did have a happy ending and he knew what she was thinking: that fate had brought him and Leitis together just when she became convinced it never would.

“Lei, he is an Ancient. If we ever meet again – which I doubt – there will be either a battlefield between us, or else prison bars. We would face each other as enemies. He might not want to kill me, but I would love to die by his hand; he would never think me even a friend.”

“What are you talking about, Allie? You are the hottest noble in Trianess; one smile of yours would kindle love in the hearts of men or women!”

“The Ancient Race thinks homosexuality a sin. If he knew what I felt, he’d loathe me. If I were the loveliest of mortal women, he’d never even look my way. The Elven hearts are cold like the glaciers of Haelghira, they say. Their love is an intellectual kinship of spirit, and they never use this word for our vile flesh. For them, we are the lower race, not much better than animals,” said Alva bitterly.

He found a perverse pleasure in deliberately picking at his wounds.

Leitis pulled away and tenderly took his face in her hands. He was always surprised at the gentleness of her hands that could so easily kill and maim.

“Two years ago, when I happened to be passing through Fanneshtou, I had ordered your horoscope. I never gave it to you, seeing how skeptical you were about fortune-telling. But I do believe it; you know all the predictions have always come true for me. I was told that you would be always lucky in matters of the heart, and that you would be very happy in love, after many trials. That you would find what you had been looking for your entire life, and that fate would give you more than you had ever asked for. Life is not over yet, sweetheart … You don't know what the next day or month would bring.”

“When I think about the future, I feel nothing but despair. Lei, darling, I can’t even imagine being happy with someone else! I could spend my life in disgrace and misery, but only if he were by my side! I think I am mad, but I do not want my madness cured.”

“It’s not your love that’s madness, but what you are doing to yourself. Allie, I cannot believe that you’d give up on life, this most amazing gift God gives us.”

Leitis touched his cheek; her eyes were serious, when she searched Alva’s face for confirmation of her faith. “I never thought you a coward. Find the courage to live on – and to live honourably! Your grief is boundless, but it will only be healed by time, not debauchery. Death in a Low-town gutter is hardly for you.”

“Don’t care,” muttered Alva stubbornly.

He was lying. In fact, her words had shamed him. Anybody else would have sounded pompous and silly, but Leitis never uttered anything she did not fully believe in. He respected her for it, was awed by her. The Commander of the White Fortress, Lady-colonel Lysander rarely used the words “honour,” “valour,” and “chivalry," but she lived them. When Alva was only starting out on his courtly life filled with refined pleasures, she led her troops into battle, and had often looked death in the face. Alva could not argue with a woman who had inflamed the soldiers’ hearts with courage and inspired them in the fields of war.

“Even if your heart is not free, you can enjoy life. Let your love give you wings, not chain you to the ground. Tomorrow you will resume your court duties and get back to writing; I miss your poetry, Allie.”

Lei’s tone – pleasant, but steely – did not invite an argument.

“And these trips to Low-town will stop. You will start taking part in the feasts, and will cease looking sourly at the cream of the Trianess court, just because they are not your beloved. Go get dressed now, we are going riding.”

“God Almighty, now?!” moaned Alva.

“Is that how you address a higher-ranking Officer?” Leitis made a stern face.

It was so funny, Alva could not help smiling and gave her a mock salute, “Yes, ma’am, Lady-colonel Lysander!”

**3.**

Lost in thought, Alva was heading back to the city along a winding road past the vineyards, the olive groves and the flowering gardens. In the air, the scent of flowers mixed with voluptuous warmth. The summer day was melting into a peaceful sunset. A breeze blew from the distant sea and kissed the burning skin. Alva was lulled by the somnolent quiet of the countryside. His thoughts dragged lazily, one after the other, and even his grief had the light sweet taste of summer.

Alva was returning, lost in thought, from an errand to the country estate of a king’s minister. He was busy berating himself. Lei had rescued him from getting completely mired in lovelorn misery. He got off easy – it had cost him two months of life, now completely gone from memory (the dog ate it, as the schoolkids say, though a famed Trianess poet shouldn’t have put it that way).

Alva was grateful for the lacunae anyway. He did not need the details of how low he had sunk and what he had done. What he remembered was shameful enough. And that dump where Lei had found him … To think that a bunch of low-lives had gambled for the right to bed him – him, Chevalier Alva Ahayrre, whose favour had been sought in vain by the richest of the rich and the noblest of the noble! – while he, half-naked and sozzled, watched in a drunken stupor.

Alva sincerely hoped that he would forget the sordid episode in time. The Maker had been more merciful to humans than to elves: he had given people the unreliable and capricious memory that easily let go of things unpleasant. The crystal-clear memory of the elves, on the other hand, could be a real curse.

Alva’s thoughts drifted back to his elf, and he sighed. It still hurt to remember Ithildin, but Alva learned to live with the pain. He had grown used to it, the way one accepts an incurable illness … well, almost. He had decided to wait a year, and then, if his heartache did not abate, go seek Ithildin in the Great Forest. Even if it cost him his life.

His house was two blocks away from the main square. In front of his gates, Alva saw a crowd of bystanders. They shoved noisily trying to peek through the grille. When they parted for Chevalier Ahayrre, they were all whispering and looking at him strangely. Alva had no inkling of what was going on.

“Must be Her Royal Highness has come to throw herself at me. Or else I am being promoted to the Captain of the Royal Guard,” thought Alva with a sneer. Both outcomes were as unappealing as they were unlikely.

Alva was met by his majordomo, looking as bewildered as the bumpkins in the street.

“You have a guest, my lord,” he stammered, “I have taken the liberty of conducting him into your study.”

Alva was surprised again: never before had his majordomo, so dignified and proper, been at a loss.

“Must be some guest,” thought Alva going up the stairs. The majordomo had remained composed even at times when the King of Creede visited Alva at home.

The heavy curtains were open and the last rays of the setting sun turned the study floor into a checkerboard of sunlit squares. The guest, tensely immobile, stood with one hand on the desk. He had risen at the sound of footsteps. It was Ithildin.

**4.**

It did not occur to Alva that he had lost his mind. No, he knew his eyes were not playing tricks on him. The elf was real, he was seeing him as clearly as the summer evening outside or the bookshelves behind his back. The elf was as real as the desk laden with scrolls and opened books. Ithildin was here, in his study. His clothes were covered with road dust, his hair was braided for travel. He was right here, and Alva could not comprehend it. He stood, drinking in the scene, and could not get enough.

The elf’s face was impassive, as usual. He seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, then went to Alva and bent a knee before him, head lowered.

“Noble Chevalier Ahayrre, I had come to serve you for as long as you wish and however you wish,” he said in the Common tongue. His speech was lightly, almost imperceptibly, accented.

“God Almighty,” managed Alva, his mouth gone completely dry, “Are you insane? … What are you talking about?”

Alva staggered and had to go down on the floor next to the elf. He yearned to touch him, but was afraid.

“I want to be your lover, if your customs permit it. If not, I would be your servant or your slave. My life is yours.”

“I do not want your gratitude. You have already repaid me, remember? We are quits.”

The elf faced Alva and said simply, “I love you. I want to be with you.”

Madness, sheer madness. Alva could not believe his ears.

“You are insane,” he repeated helplessly. How could the elf say these things, with this impassive face and dead-serious eyes? “You can’t love me, that’s impossible.”

“My people do not lie. I can say it in my own tongue.”

And the Ancient repeated exactly what he had said to Alva in the forest. Evidently, Alva was wrong to mistrust his hearing; he had remembered correctly.

“Please stop tormenting me,” begged Alva, taking the elf’s hand. “If you chose to serve me out of gratitude, if you are not certain about your feelings, it will kill me!”

Ithildin put his hand to Alva’s cheek and gazed at Alva so tenderly, Alva’s heart leapt. “There is no mistaking love. We always know when it comes. I have to be yours, or I will never rest.”

Alva was close to tears. Never, in his life, had he felt anything as poignant. He lacked the words to describe it, for all his poetry and education. He only knew that he would have gladly paid for this moment with his life. He threw his arms around the elf, and gasped into his ear, “I love you. If you stay with me, I … I will be the happiest of mortals and immortals.”

“I thought I would die away from you,” whispered Ithildin back. He put his hands on Alva’s shoulders and pressed him closer.

Alva’s words fell like raindrops, “And I thought I was dead already.”

**5.**

It took them a long time to let go of one another, as if the rough carpet in the study was the best place for the throes of passion. Finally, Alva remembered his duties as a host. The elf was immediately taken to the bath.

Alva closed the door behind him and had to lean against the wall and try to ward off the trooping visions of silver hair under jets of water, perfumed foam on gleaming white skin, contours of the slim body in foggy mirrors … By the time Ithildin walked out, wrapped in a towel, Alva had had the time to compose himself. So much that when the towel slipped down and a cool body pressed against him, Alva found the strength to put a robe on the elf and tie the silk belt. Twice.

“Don’t you want me?” whispered Ithildin, blushing, eyes lowered.

“I wouldn’t drag you to bed without letting you rest after a long journey,” Alva smiled tenderly, and kissed Ithildin on the temple.

“I am not tired,” said the elf.

Alva kissed him again and stood back. “Let’s go have supper.”

At the table, food forgotten, Alva stared at Ithildin. He thought he could endlessly contemplate how the elf brought a peach slice or a glass of rosé to his lips. It was said that alcohol did not affect the Ancient Race. Ithildin drank wine like water. It did not flush his cheeks, light up his eyes or confuse his movements. What else would Alva find out about his beloved? He wanted to ask a thousand questions, but instead prattled on, not waiting for answers. His cheeks burned with every glance from the silver eyes underneath the gleaming crescents of eyelashes.

The dusky summer evening flowed into a cooler night. Chevalier Ahayrre blew out the candles and lit the logs in the fireplace, making flickering shadows dance across the walls. Once Alva sat down, Ithildin stretched at his feet like a cat and then rubbed his face against Alva’s thigh. Flames cast a red glow over Ithildin’s loose hair that now fanned across Alva’s legs. Alva responded instantly to the caress, and bent down to drink in the elf’s lips. The tender kiss became passionate, the pink hyacinth lips were deliciously soft and fragrant, but the sweetest part was having Ithildin respond – awkwardly and hesitantly perhaps, but still ardently.

Ithildin’s hands locked around Alva’s neck, while Alva’s hands traveled the length of the elf’s body, lingered on his shoulders, the nape of his neck, and went down to the waist. Chevalier Ahayrre was happily contemplating whether to move to the bedroom or start right here, but when he let his hands crawl underneath the wispy silk and touch Ithildin’s thigh, the elf flinched as if stung by a whip.

Alva, flustered, drew back. “Did I do something?” he asked.

“It’s all right,” now the elf returned Alva’s hand to where it was before, “I do want to please you. My greatest happiness would be to sate your desires.”

Alva was certainly not used to hearing words like that in bed. Truth be told, he had only heard this from prostitutes, and it always failed to turn him on. Now too, he felt the excitement drain, leaving behind the sober comprehension.

“Wait, my love. You have never enjoyed it before, right?”

“It is enough for me to bring you pleasure. That’s what’s important for me. I am only sorry that my experiences have been so … limited.”

Alva winced. He understood what Ithildin meant by “experiences.”

“Oh, gods. I want you to feel as I do.” Alva ran his hand over the elf’s shoulders, kissed his neck and whispered gently, “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. You are shivering, my sweet …”

“I am sorry,” now Ithildin looked abashed, “I am just not used to it. Don’t worry about me, do what you want.”

“That’s not how it’s going to be, dearest. I don’t want it the way it was before. You will not submit to me out of duty, or whatever you elves call it.”

“I love you,” said the elf pleadingly and touched Alva’s face again. “I want to belong to you, body and soul.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Ithildin looked away. Alva, tenderly but insistently, made Ithildin face him. The elf bit his lip and did not speak.

“Tell me the truth, Ithildin, please.”

“It … it … hurts,” said Ithildin, eyes downcast. His blushes were barely visible in the twilight of the room. “Even with you, though you had been gentle with me.”

“I was beastly with you,” Alva hid his face in Ithildin’s hair.

The strands smelled of woodland grass. Suddenly, Alva felt tears well up. He was silent for a long time, suppressing a desire to weep.

“Please, do not reject me,” whispered the elf. He pressed against Alva and tried to undo his belt. “I bear pain more easily than people do, and with you, even the pain seems sweet.”

“My darling, my love, my sweetheart, my silver flower …” Alva kissed Ithildin’s hands, laughing through his tears. “I swear not to hurt you ever again. I will not touch you until you want it yourself.”

“But I want to! To be yours, to share your bed …”

“There is so much you still do not know, my love.” Alva leaned back and pulled Ithildin with him, so he ended up lying on Alva’s chest. “Do you really think this is the only way to make love?”

In response to the elf’s puzzled stare, the young man gripped him with his knees, and rubbed his hips against the elf shamelessly. His eyes were teasing.

“No,” cried Ithildin and tried to break out of Alva’s embrace, but could not do it easily.

“We are equal, my love, and I want to be yours as much as you want to be mine.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you!”

“You silly,” cooed Alva, kissing him, “there is no pain at all if you do it right.”

“But I never … I don’t know if I could.”

“It’s not as tricky as you think,” said Alva with feigned assurance.

The learned treatises were silent on the subject of elven sexuality. Perhaps they only got turned on by women. Until now, Alva did not seem to affect Ithildin physically at all. Not that he had tried …

As if in response to Alva’s confusion, Ithildin whispered, eyes averted, “My people know nothing of carnality. We share the bed only for the sake of offspring. I am an elf, I can only give my body to you.”

“And I am the God of Love and the Ars Amatoria Master – that’s how I am known in Trianess. I have enough passion for both of us.” Chevalier Ahayrre substantiated his words with a long scorching kiss.

When they paused for breath, Alva saw that the fear in the elf’s eyes gave way to trust.

“Teach me pleasure. To take it and to give it! I want our every night to be joyous.”

“Delighted, my love. Let’s start on a big bed. The floor is too hard for my taste. I am very choosy that way…” and Alva laughed happily.

Their fears were unfounded. The famed elven coldness melted without a trace under Alva’s deft hands and lascivious lips. The tide of arousal shattered the elf’s composure and swept him out to the wanton sea of pleasure. His eyes opened wide in amazement, reflecting only desire and a staggering, overwhelming happiness. All restraint was gone. He moaned and writhed, hips pinned to be bed, while his lover’s hot mouth caressed him. And then Alva let Ithildin take him.

After the first moment of hesitation, the few seconds of getting used to the sensation of the two bodies meeting for the first time, Ithildin took him as expertly and delicately, as if he had spent his entire life practicing. And into Alva’s ear, he breathed, “Lielle, _aerve_ , _mi alesse_ … my love, my life …”

Gasping and frenzied, Alva felt he was melting into his lover. There had never been such perfect joining of souls and bodies. The orgasm crashed over them like an ocean wave that shatters, furious, against the rocks.

“I want more. I want you all the time.”

“Lielle... Is this how it always is? For humans? Every night?”

“Yes, when you love each other ... But it will get even better.”

“It can’t be better, can it?”

“Don’t know … might be worth a try. Oh, dear God in heaven, it has never felt this good. If it gets any better, it will kill me. I am joking, don’t look so scared, sweetness. Come here. I’ll see how well you’ve learned. I am a very strict teacher.”

“Now you have to try … Please. Take me.”

“Not yet, my love. We’ll have plenty of time. I am yours tonight. And tomorrow night, and the night after tomorrow, and for as long as you want. My dearest …”

All night long, gleaming silver mixed with burnished bronze, scarlet with pale pink, pearly white with sun-kissed gold, and emeralds reflected the molten silver. Their love was, by turns, unbridled and wild, and then soft and tender. The sunrise found them locked in an embrace, wan with lassitude, but still filled with desire.

**6.**

The two on the bed could see the sky reddening from the bedroom window. They kissed lightly, pressed skin to skin, and quietly talked because they had no energy for anything else.

“So you speak the Common tongue now …”

“Yes, I do.”

“Learned it in two months?”

“One.”

“So fast? How come?”

“It’s a gift of the Ancient Race. We are quick studies.”

“Did you use books?”

“No, I went to Naith Saihn, you call it Fanneshtou. I learned your tongue, your customs, history, geography, literature. They even had one book of your poems. I read it.”

“And? How did you find it?”

“Human poetry is hard for me.”

“Why?”

“I find the form too restrictive.”

“I think I’ve tired you out. You are hardly loquacious.”

“I am answering your questions.”

“Don’t you ever want to … chat?”

Ithildin smiled. “You ask too many questions. I am not used to this. Elves need few words to understand each other.”

“You can share thoughts?”

“No, feelings.”

Now Alva understood the elven laconic stoicism that verged on arrogance. They were not prideful. They just had no need of body language or conversation to express what they felt.

“I can’t yet understand you without words. So please bear my questions. Did you like my poems?”

“Yes. Some. ‘Freezing fire, slate and copper, burning ice of lips’ …”

“Who would have thought. Aren’t you supposed to prefer something like, “How the nightingale pales when the moon, light and frail … ”

“Only you humans find the nature exotic.”

“And for you – it’s feelings?”

“Yes. It’s strange … odd. Mesmerizing.”

“You should have gone straight here, and not to Fanneshtou,” now Alva sounded bitter. “I could have read my poetry to you in person.”

“I am sorry. I had to understand humans at least a little before showing up. It could have been awkward for you.”

“I doubt that.”

“There was no other way. I had to.”

“How did your kin ever let you go?”

Ithildin fell silent and looked away. Alva had seen Ithildin hesitate before, when he was not comfortable telling the truth. Could the Ancients lie at all? At least to others, if not to themselves?

“Do you really want to know?”

“You joking? I want to know everything about you. You’ll be telling me your life story of a winter evening.”

“My old life is over.”

“What?”

The elf spoke blankly, as usual, “My people have banished me. I am an exile.”

Alva gasped in surprise and sat up in bed. “They banished you? Your kin? Dear God, how could they?”

“I knew this would happen when I came back,” said Ithildin. Still no emotion.

“Then why? You could have stayed with me …” Alva bit his lip and turned away. The memory of long weeks without Ithildin hurt, almost physically. To think the elf could have stayed with him, gone back to Trianess with him!

“I still had a duty to my people.”

Alva had long suspected that the story behind Ithildin’s capture was not straightforward. Five elves would not have gone into the Wild Steppe for the fun of it. The Ancient Race never left the Great Forest, Greyna Thialle, without a compelling reason. Chevalier Ahayrre was correct. Five elves were escorting the sixth. When they heard the approaching barbarians, they changed course, led the pursuers away and fought them to let the sixth escape. The Essanti never realizes they had missed one elf.

“I had to be certain Miri had made it to Greyna Thialle.”

“Miri?”

“My sister.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. Nobody else was happy to see me.”

“Not the others?”

“They were aggrieved. They knew I had been caught by the barbarians. They thought I should have taken my life rather than suffer shame.”

“Oh, God!” Alva was stunned. “But I heard that suicide, too, is shameful among the elves.”

“Yes,” answered Ithildin. “But it is less shameful, than to be …” he could not utter the word, and finished with, “to be who I had been.”

Alva was to get many more surprises. He learned more about the Ancient Race in a few days with Ithildin than he had in his entire life. Not all the discoveries thrilled him. Their two cultures were too disparate. For example, to owe your life to a mortal was also considered shameful.

The melody of Ithildin’s soft voice flowed into Alva’s ears, but the words it carried made him cringe. Ithildin spoke blandly, laconically, and indifferently, as usual, sticking to the facts, but Alva seemed to live everything Ithildin talked about. Perhaps even a human and an elf can understand one another, especially if they are in love. Who could put into words the contemptuous pity and cold derision heaped on Ithildin merely because he failed to slit his own throat after the capture.

“Some clamoured to help me cleanse the shame with blood. My blood.”

“They could kill you? That’s so … so … barbaric!”

“Our customs. Suicide is a sin, so when life becomes unbearable, the kin would step in. Exceptionally, without the victim’s consent.”

“And you came back even though you knew? You took this risk?”

“I knew my rank would protect me.”

“Your rank?”

“Blood of the ancient Elven kings flows in my veins. My maternal uncle rules the Great Forest.”

Alva opened his mouth and shut it right back. He did not know what to say. Not only was his lover an elf, he was also a prince. Shocking. You’d think he would be handled with care, and not let out gallivanting with a few soldiers.

“I am free to go as I please. I went for the sake of my sister; she had to make this journey and I could not let her go alone. We took only four others as convoy to avoid attention; this made slipping by the barbarians’ outposts easier.”

Alva did not fail to notice the vague “had to make this journey.” What was it that made the elves ready to risk their lives? Well, Ithildin was entitled to his secrets. Alva was more interested in why none of the Ancients was concerned about five of their disappeared kin.

“They knew I was alive and my comrades were dead. I was not coming back, so had to have been captured.”

“And they never even tried to rescue you?”

“A captured elf is a dead elf. Nobody bargains for his life, nobody tries to fight for him. It’s the law.”

“It’s a cruel law. Inhuman.”

“We are not humans,” responded Ithildin. “For you, the law is a scroll with a king’s seal that they hang up in the market square. For us, the law is the voice of our gods, our ancestors, our flesh and blood. It is not writ anywhere, but every elf knows it since birth. Only a madman would dare defy it. I suffered because you must have thought me ungrateful, but I was bound to silence while I was captive. Only when you told me I was a guest, and not a prisoner, was I able to talk to you.”

“So what does your law say about being in love with humans?”

“Nothing at all,” said Ithildin with a slight smile, “or else I could not have loved you. But to my people, I am an outlaw twice over; not only are you human, but also male.”

“Is that why they banished you?”

“I had no plans to remain there. Not away from you. I told them honestly why I was leaving, and I was banished. I can never return to Greyna Thialle, and no elf will ever recognize me as kin.”

“And you are being so calm about it?”

“Not too high a price for being with you.”

“So you love me that much?”

“As only an elf can love.”

Alva sighed against Ithildin’s chest. “Don’t know why I should be so lucky. How could you fall for me? I never dreamt this could be, not even in my sweetest dreams.”

“Don’t know. It just happened. I think you had me when I first saw you. When you first arrived at the camp. You did not see me then, but I was looking at you and thinking _I had never seen anyone more beautiful in my entire life_.”

Ithildin smiled and ran his fingers through his lover’s red hair.

“Never, really?” mumbled Alva. “I am only a human, not an elf. Can you really think us beautiful?”

“Of course,” whispered Ithildin. “If you saw yourself through my eyes you would believe me. You were beautiful like the setting sun, with your scarlet clothes and your hair flying in the wind.”

After three months of imprisonment filled with filth, pain, blood and humiliation, the elf escaped into fantasies while the barbarians used his body. He could hardly tell the difference between dreams and reality, so the green-eyed red-haired rider on a sleek chestnut steed must have been just another lovely vision. He bounded past, leaving Ithildin to dream about seeing him again. Twelve days. Thirteen nights.

The elf saw the feast being prepared and dreaded it: he knew too well what to expect from the Essanti roused by libations and lewd dances. But when he saw the shining mortal again, he forgot about everything. The mortal’s eyes were filled with compassion, pity, admiration and longing, rather than lust. For lust is the burning iron of a brand, but a longing for love is the warm glow of a hearth on a winter day, a perfumed breath of wind from the grassy meadows.

“Nobody ever kissed me before you. As if a thunderbolt went through me. Your kiss was a seal you placed upon me, and I was beholden to you from that moment.”

Ithildin had no illusions about his future. He was a barbarians’ plaything, now he was just changing hands. No matter that the new owner was noble and good-looking, and treated him well. It was still a prison, and hatred was all that the elf would be permitted to feel.

Ithildin was torn. Love for the mortal wanted to take root in his heart, but reason warned that he was only a slave, a sex toy. Love fought hatred, and the ravaged body suffered what the soul suffered. For an elf, inner discord brings on a high fever that could incinerate their body within days.

“Couldn’t you read my feelings? Know how much you meant to me?”

“I was too weak. My mind was clouded. You were kind to me, but I was afraid to believe in your kindness. Humans were not often kind to my people, and the barbarians’ cruelty was all I knew. I was afraid of you. A lovable enemy is more dangerous than a hateful one.”

The elf recuperated in Fanneshtou, whether through physicians’ skill or his own tenacity. He resolved to live on and accept any fate. But he had no idea what that fate would be. He never thought Alva would set him free.

“Human kindness is worse than their hatred, it leaves wounds that will not heal. I instantly understood how I had misjudged you, and awe pierced my heart. You desired me, and never once touched me after that feast. You loved me, and were willing to let me go.”

Alva’s embrace was so tight, it hurt.

“If you had only mentioned your love for me, I would not have let you go. As god is my witness, I couldn’t have, righteousness be damned.”

“I know,” said Ithildin, “so I never said anything. I only let my body speak. When I submitted to you, everything in me called out to you, to take me, make me yours, my love.”

He whispered the last words into Alva’s ear, and then licked the earlobe. He pressed against Alva and moved his hips in a wanton invitation. This was not a temptation Alva could resist. But this time Alva was unhurried, he caressed and stroked, until the elf begged to be taken. This time, when he took Ithildin, there was no pain, but only blinding pleasure. They moved and moaned in unison, gripped by the shared thrill. Right before he came, Ithildin gasped, “Love … you … Lielle …” and Alva followed within seconds.

“What does Lielle mean?”

“We often come up with endearments for the loved ones. Lielle – sunshine in the water on a summer day. Miri – whisper of a star.”

“And me, calling myself a poet … Anything I can call you now is trite. My love … Ithildin … Diné … God, I am happy. If only I could stay in this bed forever … Love is fine, but duty is the daily grind. I have to get to the palace.”

**7.**

“Check and mate, sire. You are distracted today.”

King Daronghi Dancennou smiled and put his hand over Alva’s.

“And you, today, are playing as never before.”

Once or twice a week, when the Creedan sovereign was less preoccupied with more important affairs, they met at the chessboard. This tradition dated from when young Chevalier Ahayrre was the King’s page. Usually, Daronghi won four times out of five, but today Alva was winning. Alva smiled at the King and began setting out the pieces anew.

“One more game, Your Majesty? As your loyal subject I should let you recoup.”

“No, just come and sit with your King.”

The young man readily left the armchair, and sat at King’s feet, head upon his knee. Daronghi’s fingers ruffled Alva’s hair and brushed his cheek. Alva pressed his lips to them. The kiss was deferential, without a trace of impropriety. They have always been close – closer than lovers, though they had never shared a bed. Their relationship was not one of a sovereign and subject. A long time ago, the King had loved Alva’s father, and after death separated them, chose to take care of his lover’s son. This bond of mutual affection remained even when the charming fifteen-year old imp grew into a handsome young man.

The King had no sons, only daughters, so it was easy to guess that Alva was like a son to him. When Iris Ingheldin, the eldest princess, turned twenty one, the King implied to Chevalier Ahayrre that he would approve their marriage. The young people, however, were not interested: they were only friends, in spite of having spent an occasional night together. The Princess married the Marshal of Creede and had already given the King two grandsons. Alva smiled when he remembered Iris and her two happy little boys.

“It is rarely that I see my courtiers looking so happy,” said Daronghi affectionately. “You fairly glow with happiness lately, my boy. I am so glad for you … and for your lover. Why did he forego my invitation and did not come with you?”

“He does not like coming to the palace, sire, though his respect for you is immense. It is too noisy and crowded here for an elf. And he cannot get used to being constantly ogled.”

“Only to be expected!” exclaimed the King. “When they see the two of you together, my subjects cannot make up their minds who to envy more – you or your Ithildin.”

“Both.” Alva sighed dreamily. “I am genuinely happy, sire. Like never before.”

“And it shows. You seem to have sprouted wings. Even your chess game improved. Your last work is a poetic masterpiece. I am thinking of giving Ithildin a medal – for services rendered to Creedan poetry.” They both laughed.

“I won’t keep you any longer. Your lover will miss you,” said the King.

“He will understand, sire. He knows how dear you are to me. It is rarely I can tear you away from the business of state. Something has been troubling you lately, I can tell.”

King Dancennou shrugged. “I am thinking about the upcoming campaign.”

“Pardon me, sire, but aren’t we dithering? The Enqins probably think us cowards and are planning another raid.”

“They can plan whatever they like, but there will be no other raids. After they last attacked Selkhir, they were wary, drove their cattle back into the steppe and slept weapons in hand. But now they convinced themselves we would not retaliate, and have eased up. Besides, the rumors of our union with the Essanti will have died down by now. They have underestimated us. Best time for a surprise attack”.

“Does that mean we’ll be riding out soon?” Alva asked eagerly.

“You yearn to go to war?” the King sounded a little sad. “And I wanted to leave you in Trianess, safe from harm, especially now that you have a lover.”

“I am an officer of the King’s Guard, my liege, and I will fight for Creede,” said the Chevalier. “Besides, for a poet, war has its charms. So make no exceptions for me.”

“What about Ithildin?”

“He can be my squire.”

“If an elf’s got your back, I have nothing to worry about,” smiled Daronghi.

“Have I ever caused you worry? My hand is strong, and my sword is not for dress-up.”

“Do not be offended, my boy. I just have a feeling this campaign will not be a happy one for you. I can be a bit of a worry-wart in my old age.”

“Cold winds, hard beds and a couple of scratches are all the unhappiness I can expect.” Alva was cheerful. “So when are we going?”

“In two days the Essanti chieftain will come to Trianess. We’ll hold the council and set the date.”

**8.**

Banners on the South Gate, flowers everywhere, the holiday crowd is roiling like the sea, the guards in their dress uniforms – blue with gold trim – are standing at attention. The courtiers, in their brilliant plumage, flock around the King. The throne glows in the sunlight, white doves spiral overhead.

Alva loved his country, but could still take it all with a grain of salt. The Creedans were ready to pull out all the stops for any event – real holiday, or not, why miss a chance to party? The Essanti chieftain, valiant Kintaro, was coming to the capital. Let the barbarian be dazzled by the wealth and luxury of Trianess.

The King of Creede Daronghi Dancennou honored his ally in the highest by going to the gates to meet him, for true greatness befriends humility, not arrogance. This was also a most diplomatic way out of a touchy situation: the proud nomad would have been insulted if he had to show up at the palace like a common supplicant. Now, they were meeting as equals. The King, in full battle armor, sat on the throne and serenely awaited the chieftain who came, preceded by the babble of the crowd. Alva, standing on guard, kept eagerly peering to the end of the street, from where Kintaro was coming. How would seeing a former lover make Alva feel?

Kintaro, mounted on a colossal black and shaggy steed, rode at the head of the procession. He was followed by about twenty other nomads. One carried a spear decked with beads and ribbons, and topped with a bison skull – a sort of Essanti banner. At the sight of the king, all twenty dismounted at once, as if following an unheard command, and genuflected, still holding the reigns of their horses. Then Kintaro, the only one left standing, stepped forward.

The crowd was clearly impressed. Alva was too; his astonished eyes would not look away from the nomad. There was no trace of the wild barbarian wearing the stinky pelts Alva remembered from the steppe. A leader of the warrior race, a battle-burnished fighter, cloaked in calm dignity, the epitome of masculine beauty, faced the Creedans!

Clean shining hair was carefully braided and trimmed with eagle feathers, strong legs were encased in sleek black leather pants, and a black agate necklace showing an eagle in flight, an emblem of a chieftain, lay against the bare bronzed chest. At his back, he had a long wide sword, hilt showing over the shoulder. When he came still closer, Alva saw that he sported elaborate agate earrings and eyes lined with kohl in the latest fashion. He was drop-dead stunning. He would have to fight off hangers-on with a stick the whole time. Though he’ll probably handle it, what with his temperament, and all, thought Alva and hid a smile.

There was much ceremony at the meeting of the King and the barbarian, but nothing to indicate haughtiness or lack of cordiality from either part. Daronghi Dancennou greeted his ally warmly, and Kintaro responded with a pithy speech. It was phrased so elegantly, one would think it came from a Royal Academy graduate, not a nomad warrior. Whatever did he do with the uncouth accents that had so grated on Alva’s ears?

Chevalier Ahayrre did not know if Kintaro had noticed him. The Royal Guards had stood close by, but Kintaro seemed to focus entirely on the King. When a white horse was brought for the King, Kintaro had held the stirrup so deftly, Alva nearly gaped. Some barbarian! Then the barbarian leapt into the saddle too, and rode off next to the King.

**9.**

Alva carried on with his duties of the Aide to the Captain of the Royal Guard late into the night, that is, he lolled in the anterooms sipping wine and receiving patrolmen’s reports. Just as he was leaving, a page brought Alva a long eagle feather.

“Your lordship’s presence is sought at the Essanti chieftain’s chambers.”

Alva sniffed and twirled the feather in his fingers – stylish, and no mistake – and followed the page.

Only a few candles lit up the large room, gloom hiding the walls. As soon as Chevalier Ahayrre entered and shut the door, he was thrown against it by a pair of strong hands and his lips were assaulted by a hard greedy mouth. Caught off-guard, Alva did not bother to struggle. What did you expect, pal? A game of chess?

The kiss was so long, it made Alva dizzy. Kintaro was burning hot and clearly turned on. So very turned on. His body gave off the mingled scent of the heated steppe grass, incense and passion. When the Essanti let him pause for breath, Alva tried to say something, but words came out as incoherent whimpers, especially when Kintaro opened his jacket and shirt and drew a searing line of kisses across his chest.

“You are one hell of a slut, pal!” was all Alva had the time to think, before being sucked down into the vortex of sexual delirium, where all coherence died. He still tried to break loose and mumbled, “No, Kintaro, don’t … “

The barbarian’s hand settled on Alva’s crotch and slid up and down. He smirked.

“And from your body, I am hearing a ‘yes,’ loud and clear.”

The young Chevalier could no longer master his desires. His breathing came loud and laboured, and his knees gave way. Kintaro took full advantage, ripped off his pants, bent him over the table, and took him relentlessly and single-mindedly. When reality came back and rang the bell, Alva realized that he was on the bed, and his partner was busy pulling off his shirt. Chevalier Ahayrre groaned, and tried to sit up, but Kintaro toppled him back.

“No rush, northerner,” he rasped and ran his lips from Alva’s ear down his neck. “We’ve got all night.”

“Stop it, you mad savage,” panted Alva as he pulled away from Kintaro’s grip. “Not like I’ll be able to sit down tomorrow, anyway. You just went and raped me.”

Kintaro laughed, “You did not seem to mind.”

“I did say ‘no’ and you heard me. And what about your custom of asking permission before sex?” Alva dripped sarcasm.

“We are at the center of civilization here, aren’t we, sweetie? Time to get over the barbaric past.”

Alva could not help snorting. “Since when do you sound educated?”

“I am educated. Spent five years in a monastery, did. I can do all the courteous stuff with the best of them. You won’t have to be ashamed of me.” Kintaro’s whisper was hot in the ear. “Lie back, I can be gentle for a change, if that’s what you feel like.” The Essanti kissed him.

Alva was not enthused. He quickly pulled back.

“No, Kintaro,” he tried to sound firm. “It’s all in the past. I will not sleep with you again.”

“Why not, huh?” Kintaro sneered. It seemed he was still not taking Alva seriously.

“My heart is taken. I have a lover.”

“I am not jealous.” Now Kintaro was condescending. “You can keep on screwing your little elf. Frankly, I don’t give a damn.”

Alva barely restrained a shocked gasp. Either the chieftain was surprisingly perceptive or too well informed.

“Listen, Kintaro. I like you plenty, that’s true, but I love my elf, and only want to be with him. You and I – just not going to happen.”

The Essanti’s smile died. He frowned, as he thought about it, then shrugged and grumbled, “Fine. We can meet only once in a while. Just sex, nothing else. You like it with me, you do. Just show up, whenever you want. No one will know.”

“Kintaro, I will not sleep with you again,” said Alva patiently. “It’s over. This is good-bye.”

But the chieftain had already got his swagger back.

“Bet I can make you change your mind, sweetie,” purred Kintaro, putting all his weight on the Chevalier, and fondling his thighs.

“Hell, do you know what ‘no’ means?” asked Alva angrily, trying to wrench free.

The Essanti’s gaze turned heavy.

“Nobody turns me down,” he said, slowly, and closed his steely fingers around Alva’s wrists.

Chevalier Ahayrre froze and stared at Kintaro, eyes wide. He believed for a moment that the chieftain would stoop to actual rape, and his mouth went dry. Then the angry blaze was gone from the nomad’s eyes, and he let Alva go. Alva absently rubbed his wrist, thinking “Animal!”

“I’ll wait,” said Kintaro nonchalantly. “In the end you’ll be mine anyway.”

Alva thought best to let it slide. He got up and dressed. The Essanti spread out on the bed watching him without a word. When Alva picked up his sword off the floor, Kintaro semi-rose, planted a hard kiss on Alva’s lips and moved away before Alva had a chance to do anything. Alva’s gaze softened a little, but he said nothing. He buckled his belt and left.

**10.**

He returned home within the hour, pulled his boots off at the entrance to the grand hall, and rushed to wash, stripping on his way. The bath was only a door away when Ithildin flew down the steps from Alva’s study, where he usually read at this hour, and flung himself on Alva’s neck. But when Alva tried to kiss him, the elf shuddered and stepped back, letting his arms drop.

Alva let a heavy sigh escape. He could read everything in Ithildin’s eyes. Alva could not hide from him. Actually, Alva wasn’t planning to hide, he just hadn’t had time to think. They had never discussed fidelity. Damn me to hell, if I know how the elves feel about cheating!

Ithlidin wrapped his arms around himself, to stop shivering, and said, numbly, “You smell of him.”

Alva swore under his breath.

“I am sorry.” He said that just to fill up the silence. “I did not think it would hurt you.”

What the hell was I thinking? Rather, with what? Damned cretin.

“You did not hurt me. The memories did. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Ithildin bent his head down, the silver hair covered his face, but Alva had already noticed his tears. The icy avalanche of comprehension crushed him.

“You … know his smell? He had been … with you?” asked Alva, numbly. Only after asking the question did he understand its implications.

“Forgive me, I can’t talk about it.” Ithildin’s voice, usually so calm and dispassionate, shook.

Still hiding his face, the elf turned and rushed out of the room.

Alva stood under the running water and scraped himself, as if trying to take off the cursed scent with the skin. “Definitely a screw-up and a cretin,” was his verdict upon self-reflection. Until now, the sequence of “drink, don’t think, swing” defined much of Chevalier Ahayrre’s life. Bloody hell, he had hurt Ithildin, his beloved, just because lust made him stupid.

He had plenty to be sorry for. He could not pretend that nothing had happened, that their life began from the moment Ithildin crossed the threshold of his house. The past was always the third in their bed. Had to learn to live with it. Or at least learn not to twist the knife in the wound, if there was no way to take it out. He threw down his towel, and went to the bedroom.

It was dark, and Alva guessed, rather than saw, that Ithildin was on the bed, head buried in the pillow. The young man lay down, and the elf, with a grateful sigh, hugged him.

“Love me. Make me forget. Your love is the only antidote,” said Ithildin, his hands on Alva’s body, lips seeking his lips. Ithildin’s mouth was sweet, tender, voluptuous.

“How can I learn to behave, if punishment is that sweet,” was all Alva had time to think before he sealed his lovely elf’s mouth with his.

The future looked bright again. Love was no longer an eclipse – it was light. And life.

_THE END OF CHAPTER 2_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you didn't read the story '[Pride of a Slave](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5237933)' (or rather 'Slave's Mettle', how it is put here in Ekleipsis), now it would be the time. I wrote it right after finishing this chapter, when the thought who had been the first to take Ithildin occurred to me._


	3. Chapter 3

**1.**

Selkhir. A buzzing market-town on the edge of the Wild Steppe. Shops bursting with wares; never enough inns to house all the merchants and travelers; many-tongued babble of motley crowds in the streets. The smell, heady and cloying, sweet and irritating, permeates everything: spice from the South, exotic fruits, fine silks, horse sweat, linens, tar from the desert ships, and a thousand other things. Nothing has changed since Alva had come here for the first time, ten years ago.

The White Fortress on top of the hill looks like a toy castle from a distance, but, as you get closer, its white walls with black arrow slits loom so large, they dwarf you. It is the greatest stronghold of the North, built three thousand years ago, when the wars raging over the fertile lands of future Creede made them run with blood. It guards the roads in all directions: to the Falkhid Sea, to the forbidding mountain chains of Haelghirra, to the Teraisa plain and the Wild Steppe. At present, the Fortress housed the Selkhir garrison – the cavalry regiment under Leitis Lysander’s command.

Nothing has changed in the fortress either. Every inch of the white stone was familiar and held a promise of a homecoming. Here was the small house Lei still lived in, even after she was promoted to Colonel; the sitting room windows overlooked the training grounds, and the bedroom opened into the garden of orange and pomegranate trees. He had often lolled there in bed until noon, when Lei would burst in after training, joyful and sweaty, bearing a rose or a bunch of grapes.

He had spent six happy months here, and the memory was still vivid. Since then, he had been to Selkhir only three times; he was too caught up in his pursuits, his travels, his duties. Besides, Lei came to Trianess often enough. He could not wait to see her again; here, in Selkhir, where every tree, every stone remembered them young and besotted, she grew even dearer to him. His darling Lei, tender and brazen.

The military brashness of the in-your-face Lady-colonel could fluster a barbarian, never mind a bashful elf. Ithildin flushed crimson, when she pulled him to the window, shouted, “My, he is hot, Allie! What a sweet blondie! Eyes like stars, a real elf, what! Welcome to Selkhir, sunshine!” and kissed him smack on the lips. That was Lei all right – noisy, boisterous, loud and imposing, who loved to strut, shock and provoke. Very few have seen how gentle and romantic she could be.

Alva giggled at Ithildin.

“I have warned you. Here, at the border, they have no truck with court ceremony. Meet my old friend Leitis, the Lady-Colonel, aka Hazarath, the scourge of Enqins and the Commander-in-Chief of the Garrison of Selkhir.”

“I got your letter two weeks ago. Hell’s fire, you can’t imagine how happy I was for you. For the two of you. Essanti will take two more days to reach Selkhir, so for now you will be my guests. Don’t even bother to object.”

“Did I ever?” Alva kissed her. “Just don’t plan on getting into bed with us. We are doing fine on our own.”

Ithildin flushed again, but Lei only laughed and tousled Alva’s red curls.

“If I did not know your parents, I’d say you were raised in a brothel, baby brother.”

“You don’t mean the one you command, Lady-colonel? I remember spending half a year here, and still can’t get over it.”

Laughter made Leitis bend double. “Touché!”

“And what does Hazarath mean?” asked Ithildin shyly, evidently trying to get them to off the subject of promiscuity. 

Alva and Leitis looked at one another and positively howled.

“She is a goddess of death in one of the Wild Steppe tribes, the Eutangha,” explained the Lady-colonel once she got over the fit.

“Yes, and when she comes for the warrior, she … she … oh, hell, she just fucks him to death,” burbled Chevalier Ahayrre, wiping away tears.

Ithildin, could not help picturing the sight and laughing.

**2.**

The Essanti came to Selkhir one day early.

It was a sunny morning, Alva and Ithildin sat at the table in Leitis’s house checking over their weapons and munitions. In addition to the sword, the elf brought from the Great Forest a longbow. He had turned out to be a superb shot. Now he was busy re-stringing the bow.

Alva heard a door slam behind him, and, at that very moment, Ithildin jumped up, dropping a chair, and blanched. Taut as a string, fists clenched, he faced the newcomer. Before Alva even turned, he knew who was standing at the door.

“What do you want here?” asked Alva dryly. “This is the house of Lady-colonel Lysander, and I do not recall her issuing you an invitation.”

Kintaro grinned and moved into the room. In his moccasins, he treaded softly, like a giant cat. At the sight of him, Alva felt a chill down his spine, and his instincts screamed that he was in the presence of danger. That gleam in Kintaro’s eyes, his wild animal grace, lent the chieftain a threatening air. Unobtrusively, Alva pulled closer the sword lying on the table.

“Not very friendly, are you, northerner? I just wanted to say hello to an old friend,” the Essanti mocked him.

“It will be better if you leave,” said Alva.

“Don’t be scared, I won’t hurt you. Or your little elf doll.” He turned to Ithildin and looked him over, head to toe, making him back away. “I see that serving you has done him good. Now he looks way better than before.”

“Ithildin is not my servant,” snapped Alva.

“Yes, slipped my mind what you call it up in the civilized North. We, Essanti, say “a fuck-toy.” Now Kintaro taunted them outright.

Red spots flared up in Alva’s cheeks. He took a deep breath, trying to control a surge of anger. He could not permit the Essanti to start a squabble. Chevalier Ahayrre knew Kintaro would have the upper hand. In a hand-to-hand, the chieftain would thrash the two them like a pair of kittens, with his strength, speed and combat skill.

“Kintaro, please leave,” said Alva again, levelly.

“So you are not even going to be hospitable, and offer me to pass the time with your slave?” Kintaro took a few steps towards Ithildin. The elf had lowered his eyelashes, and betrayed no feeling, but his fingers clenched the edge of the table so hard, they had gone white. 

“What’s the big deal with him anyway, northerner? He does not mind who fucks him. He is just a slut, and you are number two thousand to lie with him.”

“If you don’t shut your vile mouth right now …” growled Alva, grabbing his sword. He was consumed with fury, upper hand be damned.

“I have screwed him before, he never told you? Nothing special, just a tight ass and a sweet little mouth,” and with those words, Kintaro ran a finger down Ithildin’s cheek.

With a short angry cry, Ithildin snatched a dagger and brought it to Kintaro’s throat.

“Ithildin, no!” cried Alva.

His fury was gone in a flash. He could imagine only too well what would happen if an elf murdered an Essanti chief.

Kintaro was still smiling, as if having an angry elf hold a dagger to his throat was a daily occurrence.

“So is he worth it, northerner?” He was looking at Chevalier Ahayrre, eyebrow cocked. “Is he worth turning me down? This slave, had by one and all, this cold-blooded Ancient?”

“Quiet, or I’ll have your tongue!” hissed Ithildin.

Alva had never suspected that the calm, level-headed elf was capable of the overwhelming hatred now blazing in his eyes. He seemed possessed. When Alva noticed how Ithildin’s hand with a dagger was shaking, he knew he had to intervene.

“So how much longer do I keep insulting your elf toy, before he decides he is man enough to cut my throat?” Kintaro jeered.

Alva threw away the sword, and pleaded with Ithildin, hands outstretched. “Ithildin, if you kill him, they will execute you. I won’t live without you. For me, for our love, please let him go?”

“You think killing me is that easy?” Having said that, Kintaro, quick as a snake, grabbed the elf’s wrist and twisted it.

It was a matter of seconds: the dagger hitting the floor, Ithildin’s cry filled with pain, and then Kintaro was holding the elf across the chest, the elf’s arms twisted behind his back.

Ithildin was shaking, his face was even whiter than before, and terror filled his eyes, as if he expected to be raped right here, right now.

“You did not answer me. Is he really that good?” Still looking at Alva, Kintaro slowly drew a hand across the elf’s chest, and thrust out his hips. “Maybe I should brush up?” He rubbed his cheek on Ithildin’s hair, touched his lips to the elf’s temple, defying Alva openly.

The elf closed his eyes. He was still standing, but ready to collapse at any moment.

“Is your sweet elf doll worth turning down an Essanti chief?”

“You would not understand, even if I bothered to explain,” said Alva quietly. “If you could understand what love is, you’d never ask this kind of question.”

“Love makes one do strange things,” said Kintaro, his voice suddenly void of scorn. “I could cross over to the Enqins tomorrow. The North would lose the very first battle, and you’d become my slave.”

Not waiting for Alva’s response, he pushed Ithildin at him, and left.

“Who’s the tall, dark and rude stranger, brother? He nearly knocked me over at the door. My own house, too!” Leitis burst into the room. “Good God, what happened here?”

“That w-was the Essanti chief,” said Alva, so riled he stuttered. “Think I was just treated to a jealous scene, W-wild Steppe style.” He hugged Ithildin who was still shaking and sat him in his lap.

Lei looked at them for some time, frowning. Then she poured a goblet of wine and shoved it into Alva’s hands, simultaneously kissing his cheek and patting Ithildin’s shoulder.

“I think you both need a drink and to be left alone.”

 

“Forgive me. It was as if darkness had engulfed me. I did not know what I was doing.”

“Stop apologizing, my love, don’t.”

“It’s all true. Every single thing he said.”

“I don’t care what he said. Don’t think about it. Forget.”

“The elves never forget. I … I remember everyone who has ever touched me, lay with me, their smell, their voices, everything. But it’s only him I hate.”

“Stop it, Diné …”

“No, you have to know. He could have killed me, but he didn’t, he kept me alive, so that I … so that his men would use me. He was … the first one … and then … more times … I hate him. Even to save my life … never … not with him … he’ll never touch me again.”

“My love … I am selfish, but I am glad you lived. If we had not met, I would be miserable my entire life, and never know why. Tell me, how can I help you. I can’t stand to see you cry. How can I dry your tears?”

“Kiss me. Yes … Lielle …”

**3.**

“Hate autumn. Hate the stupid saddle. Hate the stupid horse. Hate to stagger around inside a stupid pile of metal.”

Ithildin barely suppressed a smile. Sometimes Lielle had these bouts of spleen, and then he whined and complained to drive a hornet from its nest. A hornet, but not the calm and collected elf.

“The Enqins are excellent shots. You can’t go into battle without armor.” Ithildin was patient, as if talking to a child.

“Battle, my ass,” grumbled Alva. “These Essanti demons and the cavalry do all the dirty work for us. We just sit behind the lines in the freezing wind. The cold and the damp will get me way before the Enqin arrows do.”

Alva exaggerated: the guards did get some action too; only yesterday a large enemy troop crossed them; some they killed and some they took prisoner.

“Maybe this will lift your spirits,” Ithildin smiled mischievously, leaned over to Alva and kissed him tenderly on the lips. He had long learned how to handle his lover’s moods.

“Mmm ...” the kiss deepened. “I want you,” mumbled Alva.

A week without sex, hell. This war left them with neither time nor energy for trysts. They would have to catch up once they returned to the camp. The campaign was at an end; it had taken only a month to scatter the Enqins across the steppe.

“A messenger,” said Ithildin peeling himself off his beloved.

He pointed. In a few minutes even those with normal human sight could make out on the horizon first a black dot, and then a wildly galloping rider waving a messenger’s flag. 

“Peace! Peace!” he was shouting from afar.

The Enqin leader Targhai finally had to drop the proud nomad act and agreed to negotiate a peace treaty.

For the next three days, Taghai haggled with Kintaro and Marshal Brano Boressa over the size of tribute and the borders to confine the Enqins from now on. The Enqins’ slaves and prisoners were let go. The spoils of war – horses, pelts, weapons – went to the Essanti, as the Creedan king had promised, and to these was added a share of cattle and gold given to the Creedans in ransom.

When the Creedan army returned to Trianess, with them went the Enquin Prince Fairiz (Targhai, his father, a stranger to false modesty, had styled himself “king.”)

In spite of his youth – or because of it – the prince quickly took to his new life. He appreciated the opulence of the court, the soft beds, the delectable cooking, the sumptuous clothes, the attentions of the metropolitan lords and ladies. They were all seduced by his exotic beauty, truly barbaric haughtiness and a romantic “nomad warrior” aura.

Fairiz had been beautiful, no question, with his aquiline profile, piercing indigo eyes, raven-black hair and a chiseled body. He became the court’s favorite new plaything for the next few months, and bed-hopped until he came under the wing of an all-powerful Chancellor Reza Rennarte, an imposing older man.

But Fairiz turned out to have a formidable competitor at the court. And one far luckier. Kintaro had been invited to spend the winter at the royal palace.

The high society fell to the barbarian chieftain as one. He was the legendary hero of the recent campaign, praised by both the cavalrymen and the Royal Guard. His unbridled temperament and unabashed, simplistic brutality drove the refined aristocrats mad with lust. They moaned “Savage!” and tumbled into his arms in droves.

The one truly sensational liaison, however, had been Kintaro’s affair with the youngest princess Tion Talliran. If His Majesty the King Daronghi Dancennou had found the romance objectionable, he hid the fact carefully. After all, it was his great-grandmother, Emris Elledwen, who had eloped with a Belg Meytarn jarl visiting at the court, and, when her elder sister the queen died without an issue, returned to Creede with her husband, took the crown and ruled for thirty years.

The winter was flying by in a whirl of balls and celebrations. Sometimes, Alva attended together with Ithildin, as there was little chance of running into Kintaro there. They did cross paths with Fairiz several times. This youth, whom Alva had judged snooty and ill-mannered, had long hankered after adding a notch for an elf to his bedpost. Eventually, Chevalier Ahayrre had to take the Enqin pup aside and explain a few things to him. Since that time, the boy just glared dangerously at the two lovers, but did not dare to pursue the shining elf openly. Alva heaved a sigh of relief when Fairiz began to carry on with Chancellor Rennarte. One love scene, Wild Steppe style, had been quite enough, thank you.

Kintaro did nothing for a long time, and Alva hoped that the Essanti had forgotten all about him. Alva had nearly stopped thinking about him as well, except for an occasional frisson of longing, usually fuelled by drink, at the sight of the tall and broad-shouldered figure visible above any crowd. But he chalked it up to nostalgia.

Chevalier Ahayrre’s hopes were dashed. Predictably.

**4.**

One evening, about two months after the end of the autumn campaign, Alva was returning from the King’s chambers. He walked the length of the gallery that ran along the whole of the western wing. About half way through it, Kintaro leaned against a wall, arms crossed on his chest, waiting.

Alva had no doubt that Kintaro was there deliberately. The royal chambers were far behind Alva, and Kintaro’s own quarters were in another wing. Without slowing down, Alva looked around. It was late, most lamps had gone out and the gallery was deserted. No point in calling for help. But Chevalier Ahayrre was a stranger to cowardice, and he had his sword. He sped up, wishing to get the unpleasantness over with.

Kintaro blocked his path. Before Chevalier Ahayrre could do anything, the Essanti gripped him by the waist, lifted him, and sat him up on a narrow window sill, standing now exactly between Alva’s knees and pressing against Alva with his entire body. Alva tried to grab at his sword, but had to give up when the steely fingers gripped both his wrists.

Their eyes were almost level now, only a few inches apart. The young man tried to pull away, but he was backed up against a window, and Kintaro gripped his wrists a little tighter, reminding him who had the upper hand.

“What do you want?” _Why did I ask that? Duh!_

“You.” The Essanti smiled and leaned over Alva.

Chevalier Ahayrre felt Kintaro’s warm breath touch his lips. Kintaro’s mouth was close to Alva’s, teasing, not letting it become a kiss. Alva turned aside and the nomad kissed his neck below the ear.

Alva could not suppress a gasp of pleasure. Kintaro has learned a great deal about his body during the few nights they had shared. If this went on any longer, there would be no question of rape; Alva would plead to be taken. Chevalier Ahayrre knew himself well.

But, this time, he was sober, which made him less of an easy catch. Besides, his pride was piqued. _This barbarian is totally yanking your chain, pal. Just looks at you and you are ready to roll over and beg._

“Let me go, now,” said Alva firmly.

“Still haven’t changed your mind?” purred Kintaro making his way down Alva’s neck.

“Did you think I would?” Alva was trying to distract himself from surrendering to the rough lips exploring his skin.

“Don’t you get it, that you were made to be mine? Don’t fight it, my sweet, I know how much you want me.”

 _No kidding. Hard to hide anything when he stands between your legs this way, that washboard midriff against your crotch._ Alva tried to push Kintaro away and keep his legs closed, but suffered a sad defeat, and got turned on even more.

“You just can’t handle losing, can you?” he said, tartly, pulling the shreds of his self-control together. 

“Losing, really? I can do whatever I want with you now. Nobody will hear you cry and moan, northerner.”

_The bastard. I am putty in his hands, when he talks in this voice, when he kisses me like that … Oh, hell!_

“Lemme go …” mumbled Alva, not even hoping to have an effect.

Unexpectedly, Kintaro released him. He lifted his head, smiled slightly, looking at Alva, and stepped back. He did let go of Alva’s wrists, but moved his hands to Alva’s hips instead.

“I won’t force you, if that’s what scares you.”

“Isn’t forcing people against the Essanti customs?”

“You’ll be mine no matter what.”

“No, Kintaro, never.”

“Because of your elf?”

“Not just him. Many reasons. Circumstances. It could never work.”

“Circumstances change.”

The chief’s unshakeable self-assurance stung Alva.

“What the hell? Why are you so fixed on me? You have screwed half the court, and still have not had enough?”

“It’s you I want.”

“Let it go, Kintaro. What about Princess Talliran? And here was me thinking you were over the Wild Steppe ways and into women now.”

“I’d fuck a sheep if she had red hair and green eyes.” Kintaro was eloquence personified.

Princess Talliran’s hair was rather chestnut-colored, but this was hardly the time for precision. Alva tried firmness, “You won’t get me no matter what.”

Kintaro merely shrugged. Evidently, he found Alva’s protestations meaningless.

“I’ll wait for a ‘Yes,’ Alva.”

Alva. Not “northerner” or “sweet”. Only now did Alva realize how rarely Kintaro had called him by his name and only now had his words held something … something greater than lust.

The young man freed himself and left feeling the Essanti’s gaze at his back. Since then, Kintaro never approached him, but Alva often caught Kintaro looking at him. He refused to think about himself and Kintaro. Whenever he tried, he got confused. He knew only one thing for certain: a Trianess noble should not get involved with a barbarian. Especially if the barbarian was the enemy of his beloved. Especially if the barbarian’s touch made the noble lose his head.

**5.**

The New Year’s Ball at the palace was splendid, as usual. Alva went with Ithildin, and everyone drooled. Men and women flirted with the two of them, asked them to dance, topped up their glasses, brought over tasty morsels and passed the billet-doux. Alva was in his element, and even Ithildin became less stiff, bantered without blushing and let Alva take him to the dance floor. But then his face tensed again, and the light went out in his eyes.

“Alva, I am bored.” His tone was cold, almost rude.

Alva was surprised. He had never seen Ithildin like this before.

“But you had wanted to come here yourself, and convinced me,” he said, mildly.

“If I knew I’d have to watch you flirt with all and sundry, I wouldn’t have. I can see I am in your way!” Ithildin’s high-strung accents contrasted strangely with his unmoving face.

Alva flinched. Was Ithildin jealous? Perhaps it could have amused him at another time, but not now, when his beloved was so evidently upset. The elf acted like a spoilt belle, determined to make a scene. This was something novel.

“My love,” Alva clasped Ithildin’s hand in his. “Please, let us not fight.”

For a moment, pain flickered in Ithildin’s face, but he went on as coldly as before, “I do not intend to fight. I just want to leave.”

“Wait five minutes, I will say good-bye to a few people, and we’ll go together.”

“No.” Ithildin whirled away. “You stay. Far be it for me to ruin your fun. I want to be alone. I’ll ask one of the guards to escort me.”

Alva stared after him, stunned. His face burned as though he had been slapped repeatedly.

He jumped when someone touched his elbow and a smooth voice of Chancellor Rennarte oozed into his ear, “A lovers’ quarrel, my dear Chevalier? Do not look so cross, this is but the way of the world. Here, have some wine. And try to compose yourself, you are looking like a whipped dog.”

Alva caught his breath and drunk deeply.

“You are in desperate need of some friendly ministration,” purred the Chancellor and drew him to a window alcove concealed behind heavy brocade. “Ah, Amargo, how opportune. Our friend was abandoned suddenly and is all lonely. Won’t you keep him company?”

“My pleasure.” Chevalier Aguirre’s hands went around Alva’s waist and he showered kisses on the young man.

Alva did not respond, but did not push Amargo Aguirre away either, unable to decide. His heart was heavy, and even the caresses of a handsome and dissolute man would not lift the weight. Sighing, Alva broke free, apologized, pecked Amargo on the cheek, and left.

His unease grew with every minute. Ithildin had acted so oddly that simple jealousy would not explain it. That his lover, so calm and easy-going, would be enraged by a few pleasantries at a court function … As if Alva hadn’t done the same to everyone, regardless of age and gender. Something was wrong. Something happened – something very, very nasty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
_**Note:** The New Year in Creede is celebrated on the first day of the first spring month._

**6.**

Preoccupied, he meandered into the garden, driven by a desire to leave people, noise and lights behind. His attention was caught by the noise coming from the pavilion overhung with grapevines. The rustling of clothes and the sound of kisses betrayed a lovers’ meeting. He could make out the voices: of course it had to be Rennarte and his blue-eyed barbarian prattling about sweeties, hotties, claspies and why don’t you stop being such a cold fish … don’t be such a cold fish, elf. That’s what he said.

Alva felt sick and broke out in cold sweat. This can’t be. It just can’t.

“Hurry, I do not have much time.” Ithildin’s voice.

A piece of puzzle clicked into place inside Alva’s head. He suddenly put together all the things he did not bother with before: the come-hither stares of the Enqin prince, the suggestive winks of the Chancellor, the way Ithildin blushed whenever he ran into the happy couple, and that time, when he came across them in a deserted gallery: the elf looked embarrassed, and the Enqin and Rennarte seemed miffed...

Alva hurt so much he nearly whimpered. So the elves don’t lie, right? Did Ithildin ever pull the wool over his eyes! A jealous scene, a quarrel, and then off he saunters into the garden for a quickie and then to make it home before Alva’s return. His gentle elf – and the randy Enqin whelp! And boy, was Ithildin’s “Euh, I just can’t stand him” act believable!

Alva was drawn to the pavilion in spite of himself. He had to see it … Beyond a shadow of a doubt …

“Want me, elf?” came a voice thick with a throaty barbarian accent. “Say you want me. Spread your legs, go on. Show some spunk, don’t just lie there.”

Alva Ahayrre froze. How dare the Enqin address Alva’s lover in this fashion? Then came Ithildin’s quiet cry. It did not sound at all like his voluptuous moans. He did not seem a willing participant. God in heaven, if they had only dared … if they had harmed him in any way …

And then Reza Rennarte’s voice:

“Faé, don’t rough him up. He still has to go back home.”

Without pausing to think, Chevalier Ahayrre burst into the pavilion.

They were so occupied, they did not even notice him. He took in the whole scene: the elf’s nude body upon a bench, the Enqin, also naked, sitting between the elf’s spread-out legs, and Rennarte, fully dressed, holding Ithildin by the arms and kissing his neck.

“What’s going on here?” Alva shouted.

Ithildin gasped and covered his face with his hands. Fairiz kept pawing the elf’s hips and stared Alva down.

Rennarte spoke coldly, “Chevalier Ahayrre, your presence is unwelcome here. Be so kind as to leave.”

“Like hell I will!” Alva was fairly wheezing with fury. “Ithildin, get dressed, we are going.”

“He wants to stay here, don’t you, darling?” Rennarte ran his hand over Ithildin’s chest, and Alva saw how the elf flinched.

“Let him say it.”

Ithildin did not speak, and kept his hands over his face.

“Stop making a spectacle of yourself, Ahayrre. Get out, or you’ll be dragged out.”

“Let’s see you do it!” and Alva pulled out his sword.

The Enqin grabbed his sheathed scimitar off the floor and leapt to his feet.

“Reza, let me teach him,” he scowled.

“First, pull up your pants, whelp!” Alva snarled.

Fairiz gritted his teeth and dropped the scabbard. Ithildin cried out and grasped his hand.

“No, you swore not to harm him! Alva, please leave!” he pleaded.

“I am not going anywhere without you.”

Rennarte smiled coldly and narrowed his eyes in calculation. “I believe it is best to let him go, under the circumstances.”

Ithildin got dressed, hands shaking. Fairiz moved to do something, but the Chancellor put a calming hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear. Alva, still seething, took Ithildin by the hand and left the pavilion.

Rennarte was leaning the archway. He spoke, sneeringly, after Alva, “Do not take it to heart, my dear Ahayrre. Everything must happen for the first time, even a lover’s infidelity.”

Then he turned to Ithildin. “Hope we are less pressed next time, darling!”

That was when Alva went and socked him one. The Chancellor crashed down to the floor. The Enqin was upon Alva in an instant, sword drawn, and their blades met with a clang.

The guards, drawn by Rennarte’s scream, came just in time to see Chevalier Ahayrre’s bloodied sword protrude from Prince Fairiz’s back. The prince staggered and slid down. He was dead.

The guards had no choice but to arrest Chevalier Ahayrre and take him to prison where blood loss from two wounds inflicted by the prince made him faint. The physician bandaged Alva and assured that he was safe, but suggested it was best not to disturb Alva until the morning.

**7.**

The king looked at Alva with gentle sadness, but when he spoke, his words were harsh.

“Alva, what have you done? You killed a hostage I had sworn to protect.”

“I am so sorry, sire. I didn’t mean to kill him. He was a rapist and a scoundrel, yes, but God is my witness, I did not want him dead.”

“But he died by your sword.”

“It was an accident. As if demons drove my hand. He is a great swordsman; I couldn’t wound him or get him to drop his sword. By every expectation, it should have been me laying dead there.”

“You knew he was from the steppe, a warrior raised to kill. And you provoked him by hitting his lover! Dear God, Alva, how could you? Rennarte is a nobleman, and a King’s Chancellor! Rennarte can be vicious, and I understand how you must have felt, but that’s no excuse! I had thought you rational … Oh, Alva!” Suddenly the king hugged Alva and kissed his forehead.

“It is not only Fairiz’s heart you have pierced, but mine. I thought I could trust you. And you threw your life away in a jealous fit. Do you get that you could’ve just started another war?”

The pain in Daronghi’s voice was hard to bear. Why does he, Alva, always make those who love him suffer?

“Forgive me, sire. I was only defending Ithildin’s honor. They were forcing him, I am certain, or else I would never have drawn my sword.”

“Rennarte says Ithildin went with them willingly.”

“He lies.”

“You are talking about an honorable man, a prominent statesman! Magnanimously, he asked to have you pardoned, even though you had murdered his lover. ‘I cannot forgive him, Your Majesty, but it pleases our Lord when we show mercy,’ he had said to me. Rennarte’s only fault was arranging that accursed meeting.”

“He has threatened Ithildin into submission! You should have seen Ithildin’s misery! You would never believe he felt anything other than disgust for the pair of them! And now Ithildin is completely defenseless before Rennarte. Please, sire, I implore you! Please take care of Ithildin – none of this is his fault. I will accept any fate, but only if I know that Ithildin is safe!” and Alva fell down to his knees and wrung his hands.

The King held Alva’s pale face to stare into his eyes. “If I did not know you quite so well, I would think you mad over a lover’s infidelity. But even if you were right, Alva … It saddens me immensely to remind you that Ithildin is not, strictly, a nobleman. Unlike Fairiz, ranked with royals.”

“There is more nobility in Ithildin’s one little finger than in Fairiz and Rennarte together! But if I need to justify my actions before the law, fine. Ithildin is the member of my household, so they had dishonored me – and you, sire, as well, since Fairiz is your hostage and Rennarte is your Chancellor, who must be beyond reproach!”

The King paced up and down the room, deep in thought. He no longer looked as devastated as before, but merely preoccupied. He finally stopped and glanced at the young Chevalier with fond concern.

“Oh, Alva. I love you as much as I had loved your late father, as I would love my own son. But I am a sovereign too, and I have to uphold justice. I’ll have to invoke my right to be the Supreme Judge, the right I haven’t used in a decade! Fairiz was my ward, Rennarte is my Chancellor, and you, my dear boy, are the member of King’s Guard. Thank Heaven, I can be judge at your trial. I would not trust anybody else with it, what with Rennarte’s influence over the Court and the Enqins’ storied vengefulness. So tell me, why didn’t you try to confirm your suspicions? Why didn’t you challenge Fairiz as the Code of Duelling dictates? You could have given him time to cover himself, at least!”

Alva sighed. “Rennarte said they would keep after Ithildin. I lost it and hit him. That’s when the Enqin charged me as he was, buck naked. What was I supposed to do? Run? Cry for help? I’m a Creedan nobleman, I had my sword!”

“By the Gates of Heaven … I’d let you go free until the trial, if I had anything to back up your accusations. If Ithildin would only confirm what you say! But he had not spoken a word since last night. And I’m sorry to remind you, but he is not human. The Ancient Race has been known to slaughter humans in cold blood; our laws and customs are nothing to them. He doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t want to tell the truth either. How am I supposed to call him to witness? Because of him, you could have been dead … and what he says at trial could still harm you.”

“He loves me! He couldn’t possibly harm me in a thousand years! Let me speak to him!”

“No. Who knows what he’ll do out of pity for you. I’ll talk to him myself.”

 

Ithildin crouched in the corner of the room where he had been locked up, face buried in his hands. The King felt a surge of pity at the sight. The frail elf was crushed by guilt, and there was no doubt that he felt overpowering remorse. He did not even hear the King enter, and jumped to his feet only when Daronghi put a hand on his shoulder.

“Your Majesty …”

“Nobody will disturb us,” said the Kking, forcing the elf to sit in an armchair and taking another. “I told the guards to keep everyone out. No one but me, the Creedan sovereign, will hear what is said here. It’s my responsibility, and mine alone, to judge the cases like this. I will be judging Chevalier Alva Ahayrre, your lover, and choosing his sentence. Do you understand the nature of his crime?”

“It’s all my fault, Your Majesty. I was cheating on Alva, and he …”

“That is irrelevant,” the King interrupted him. “Prince Fairiz was our Enqin hostage, as you know. Killing a royal hostage is punishable by death, unless it was for a just cause, a matter of honor. Jealousy is neither.”

The elf’s face looked like a death mask. He could not bring himself to speak and only stared at the King in horror.

“Perhaps you do not know about Creedan penal laws. A murder motivated by jealousy is one of the worst crimes here. Except, when a vow of fidelity is made and broken, or a person cheats in a cynical, shameless manner, betraying their lover’s trust, the revenge might, well, get a lesser sentence. I know you told Alva at the ball that you were heading home, that’s what everyone says. How did you end up in the garden with the Chancellor and the Prince?”

Ithildin lowered his head and whispered, “I lied to Alva. I had agreed to meet Chancellor Rennarte in the pavilion.”

“Alva would have let you see anyone, he is neither jealous nor controlling. Why the secrecy?”

“I did not want to hurt him.”

The King saw how a tear left its wet trail on Ithildin’s cheek. First one, then another. His heart clenched, but he forced himself to speak dispassionately. “You have hurt him with your lies. You trust your lover so little that you could not be honest with him? Why didn’t you tell him? Answer me!”

“I … could not,” managed the elf. “I did not want Alva to think … that I could like anyone except him. It’s only him I love.”

“Then why, Ithildin, why?”

The elf still did not answer, and only hung his head.

“Your silence is killing him,” said Daronghi harshly.

“Why would my words matter? I am of the Ancient Race and no Creedan,” said Ithildin lifelessly. “I have no right to stand in a court of justice.”

“Nonsense! Who told you?” the King articulated the questions very carefully and very quietly, “Who threatened you, Ithildin? Who sealed your lips? Say the name, so I can act!”

Silence. The King rose, crossed the room anxiously, then sat down and took the elf’s hands in his.

“Listen, my boy,” he went on softly, “I have known Alva since birth. He is noble and kind, but rash. He had only one reason to fight Fairiz: he thought he was defending your honor, that you had been forced to do what you did. You would have to stand before me in court and either confirm or deny this. Your word will carry the day. I do not care that you are an elf, it only matters to me that you love Alva and can help him. Do not make me mete out a punishment more harsh than Alva deserves. Tell the truth, Ithildin!”

The elf lifted his head very slowly, and pain filled his eyes. “Let me fall to your wrath, your Majesty,” he said firmly. “But as long as Alva’s life is in danger, I will not speak.”

He sounded so determined, that the King gave up.

“You will remain in this room until the trial,” he said and rose. “If it turns out that you have betrayed Alva, I will banish you from Creede for the rest of your eternal life.”

**8.**

The trial was set for two weeks hence. Chevalier Ahayrre was under guard the entire time. He wept and pleaded to see his lover, but the King remained implacable: there would be no meeting as long as Ithildin persisted in his refusal to tell the truth. The elf rejected a meeting anyway, claiming that he would not be able to look Alva in the face.

In the end, the King had decided to go along with whatever the elf was playing at. He had augmented Alva’s guard, on the pretence of fearing the Enqins’s retribution (though all five Enqins from the prince’s retinue had been arrested within half an hour of Chevalier Ahayrre). Anybody who wished to visit Alva was free to do so, and then they could go on and gossip left and right about the horrible state of despair he was in over his precious elf’s infidelity.

It pained King Daroghi Dancennou to see his favorite so suffer, but Alva might as well look truly stricken. The King only thanked heaven that the happy-go-lucky poet never fancied suicide, and hoped that all the suffering wouldn’t be for nothing. Lastly, the King set two trusty servants to watch Rennarte day and night, ostensibly out of concern for his life. The Chancellor was peeved, but did not dare protest.

One day the Essanti chieftain Kintaro had a private audience with the King, after which he suddenly ceased inquiring about the prison layout and its number of guards.

At first, the trial proceeded smoothly. Reza Rennarte was dignified, as befitted a Chancellor, and stirred considerable sympathy holding forth about his love for the Enqin prince Fairiz, and the self-sacrificing way in which he arranged Fairiz’s dalliance with Ithildin. Apparently, said elf and Prince Fairiz have long burned with suppressed passion for one another, and only the elf’s innocence in matters of the heart and his lover’s jealous watch forestalled a rapturous union.

The crowd booed. They could not believe that anyone having the gorgeous Chevalier Ahayrre for a lover would contemplate screwing around.

Alva was composed, but so pale, that freckles, usually invisible, stood out on his face. He kept looking at Ithildin, but Ithildin refused to notice. Chevalier Ahayrre repeated more or less the same story he already told the King, but refrained from direct accusations. His speech was tempered with the “it seemed to me,” “I thought that,” and “it appeared …”

The hall grew noisier with the obvious disapproval of Alva’s fickle lover. They thought Alva was defending Ithildin, and the traitorous elf wasn’t worth it.

Then a few other witnesses were called, and spoke to leave no doubt that Ithildin had been straining at the leash to cheat on Alva and had carried out his intentions in a most calculated fashion. The courtroom roiled. Anyone would feel the wave of hatred directed at the elf, even without the benefit of the elven sensitivity. Not one person here was on Ithildin’s side. Everyone thought him fully responsible for what had happened, while Chevalier Ahayrre had been the victim of circumstances and deceit. The other victim – the dead Fairiz – was almost completely forgotten.

King Dancennou could privately admit to hoping to see this reaction, even wishing for it. It gave him a chance to hand down a milder sentence than was warranted, even if the elf never told the truth. Ithildin was called to witness last, due to his race and lower rank. (There had even been times when elves were not allowed in human courtrooms, though that was long before the founding of Creede).

When Ithildin stood on the dais, everyone fell silent. Clear-eyed, slim and impossibly lovely he was as sin clothed in innocence, as the legendary Helean, who had ignited heroes of antiquity to strife, had been.

His testimony was so scandalous, that Trianess remembered it for a good ten years.

In the most refined Common tongue, he asserted that Chancellor Reza Rennarte had induced him, the elf Ithildin, to sleep with his lover Prince Fairiz, by threatening to kill Chevalier Alva Ahayrre if Ithildin did not comply.

“Chancellor Rennarte showed me a piece of fringe from Alva’s epaulette. Alva did not even notice that it was cut. Next time, he said, the knife would be aiming at his throat.”

That’s when the elf pulled out from inside his shirt and showed to the assembly the damning fringe.

Then it was pandemonium. The emotional Creedans jumped in their seats, trying to out-shout one another, and it took the guards a long time to restore order. The King, ready for this turn of events, ordered the Chancellor, who betrayed no emotion, detained. Alva fainted, from nerves and exhaustion, and came to in the embrace of Ithildin who was allowed, at last, to touch his beloved.

When the courtroom calmed down, the trial wrapped up quickly. Rennarte admitted nothing, and stood his ground, but he had lost all credibility. Coercing to have sex was a serious crime in Creede. There was still not enough proof to arrest Rennarte, but the King exercised the royal prerogative. Rennarte was to be dismissed from his post at court, as a Chancellor should not be tarnished by a scandal so outrageous.

When the King was ready to pronounce Alva’s sentence, half the courtroom wept openly at the sight of two lovers, an elf and a human, who would not let go of one another. It was only the regal composure and strength of character that had saved Daronghi from weeping.

King Dancennou proclaimed that the outcome of any duel was, ultimately, God’s justice. God had bestowed victory on the noble Chevalier Ahayrre, even though Prince Fairiz was a better and more experienced swordsman. Thus, the righteousness of said Chevalier’s cause was confirmed. However, Chevalier Ahayrre was still guilty of breaking the Code of Duelling. The King pronounced that, for this offence, the noble Chevalier Ahayrre would be demoted from the officer’s rank and sent for five years to the fortress of Shahsh in the far north-west, at the foot of Haelghira Mountains.

The proclaimed sentence was made to sound more severe than it was. Shahsh was a peaceful and comfortable place, a mountain resort, almost. Besides, the King would have never stashed Alva there for five whole years. Two at most, to give the chillier climes the time to cool his hot head. Once the rumors had died down, Daronghi would have transferred him to another garrison or sent him with a mission overseas. And he certainly was not planning to deprive Alva of Ithildin’s presence. The elf would have joined Alva in secret a couple of weeks later, after settling some of Alva’s affairs in Trianess.

Foremost, the King aimed to remove Alva from the capital where he would have been in danger. Though Rennarte was no longer Chancellor, he had remained influential in Trianess. The fortifications of Shahsh, thousands of leagues away from the Wild Steppe, would also protect Alva from the Enqins’ wrath. Daronghi did not believe for a moment that Alva’s sentence would sate the nomads’ lust for revenge. Even Alva’s execution would not have been enough to satisfy them – they would have wanted him alive, to torture him.

The King gave Alva and Ithildin twenty four hours to say their good-byes, and then the convict, surrounded by a large guard, left for Shahsh. Reza Rennarte was to remain under house arrest until both lovers had reached the security of the fortress walls. The elf, who had to stay behind in the capital for another two weeks, was given bodyguards as well, as he could not bear arms within the capital. Fairiz’s body, embalmed, was sent back to his father, with a large ransom from the king. An honor guard accompanied the five Enqins from the prince’s retinue all the way to the border, never letting the Enqins out of sight.

Seemingly, every precaution had been taken. But nobody knew that Reza Rennarte had long been in touch with the Enqins (no pun intended). The very night Fairiz died, Rennarte sent king Targhai a message and suggested how “the touchy situation” ought to be handled. The Enqin agreed. Money flowed, thugs stirred, a rogue mage was hired from Fanneshtou, and a three days’ distance from the capital, all of Alva’s guards were cut down and he was kidnapped. The same day, Ithildin was attacked, his bodyguards killed. The attackers had misjudged the strength and fighting skills of the seemingly frail elf, however. Ithildin, himself unscathed, killed or seriously wounded a few, while the others fled.

The King sent his soldiers all over Creede, but they never caught up the kidnappers. Every day made finding Alva alive and well less likely. Daronghi was inconsolable. Lady-Colonel Leitis Lisander never left the saddle, riding out into the Steppe, in case the kidnappers were getting back by way of Selkhir.

Ithildin, unnaturally calm and composed, wrapped up everything he had to do in Trianess in one day: sold, at Alva’s behest, Alva’s art collection, picked up from Alva’s publisher the money for Alva’s last manuscript, dismissed all servants, except the gardener who remained to keep an eye on the property, and disappeared from the capital, giving his new bodyguards the slip.

At exactly the same time, Kintaro left, after bidding the King good-bye and thanking him for the hospitality. He took his troop of fifty men in the direction of Creede’s south-eastern borders, where lay the Essanti lands. King Dancennou figured that the timing of the two departures was no coincidence.

**9.**

Ithildin was a stranger to self-reflection. His actions often went unexamined. He knew for certain that the sojourn with the Essanti had profoundly altered his chaste elfin nature. The Ancient Race despised the flesh, and neither talked nor thought about it. For the elves, even the meals were only a ritual, because elves could live for a long time without food and not feel deprived. The elf babies were not breastfed or cuddled, and never learned joy and contentment in their mother’s arms.

Ithildin had lived for two hundred fifty human years, and in that time had known no earthly pleasures. But he also knew nothing of real deprivation. Hunger, pain, fear, exhaustion were just words to him before the capture. The Essanti had utterly debased him because with them, he was no longer an individual. He had become nothing but a receptacle for gross animal lust: an anus, lips, tongue, fingers, hands … the hair that could be yanked, and the buttocks fondled to get hard faster, a pair of legs that could be spread to pound harder. That’s all he had been to the Essanti.

He had passed through terror, revulsion and despair, and washed up at apathy. It no longer mattered who did what to his body, and even pain became a habit. But the green-eyed red-haired mortal had burst through the indifference that wrapped the elf against reality, and had turned his world upside down.

Ithildin was in turmoil: it seemed to matter to Alva that the elf had both a body and a soul, and Alva wanted him soul and body. Lielle had gifted him a whole universe of delights: love, tenderness, the sweet lull that comes after lovemaking, the warmth of a lover’s body under a fur blanket on a cold night, the smell of his skin, the taste of his lips, a sip of wine from his mouth shared within a kiss, a slice of apple out of his hands, a smoldering whisper in his ear.

Ithildin felt alive like never before – a beating heart, blood pulsing through veins, the feel of skin on skin – and, like never before, he was aware of the frailty of life, of its vulnerability and transience. The implacable time killed a mortal within years, a fever – within weeks, and cold steel – in mere seconds. Life would gush out from the beloved body with one flick of a blade severing an artery. Ithildin was beset by this vision, as he clutched numbly at the cord from Alva’s uniform and listened to the Chancellor’s insidious words.

He had agreed to the deal without hesitation. His life seemed a pittance compared to saving his beloved, and what Rennarte and Fairiz wanted appeared downright trifling. There was no comparing them to the Essanti, who humped him day and night, wildly and brutally, knowing no lubricant other than blood and spit. After what had happened to him, Ithildin could lie easily with anyone; giving over his body was small change to him now, certainly worth saving a life and having a chance to feel, love and be with his lover.

So the Essanti chief had been right when he had called Ithildin a slut and anyone’s bitch, and that only made the elf hate him more. The disapproval of his kin had been nothing to the elf. They could go on thinking he had fallen, but he did not care because now he had found a love that lent meaning to his life. But Kintaro’s words had to reflect the way Ithildin’s lover saw him, because Alva had shared more with the nomad – in their experience of life – than with the elf. “He does not mind who he fucks. He is nothing but a slut, and you are his number two thousand.” That was the truth – the way the barbarian saw it, the way Alva could see it some day.

Ithildin was horrified at the very idea that Alva could, even for a second, believe Ithildin did not care who he bedded. Of course there was a difference. The difference between day and night, black and white, ice and fire. It was only with Lielle that copulation became lovemaking: a surge of joy, happiness, sensual ecstasy and a multitude of other sensations he had never known before and could never know with anyone else.

He tried to explain all of this to his beloved, in the midst of gaspingly quick embraces, during the short time they had remaining after the trial. He understood, chilled, that the chasm still yawned between them, and they were still skirting it, and always at risk of stumbling.

“It hurts me that you were going to let this swine have you, without even a trace of feeling, just for me,” said Alva sadly.

“But I was exactly afraid that you would think I had feelings for him.”

“But why, Diné? If you had liked Fairiz, I would bring him to you myself, and we would have a three-way. You can love anyone you choose and bed anyone you choose, my love for you will not diminish.”

“But it’s you I love, how could I even like anyone else?”

“So, what about Lei, Ozra and Weistle, or Iris? Don’t you like them?”

“They are your friends, they love you, and I feel it. I like being with them. Besides, they are interesting to talk to, I have learned a great deal from them.”

“And that’s it?” Alva sighed.

“Well, yes,” Ithildin sounded a little surprised. “Lielle, it is rare that an elf should love. Even blood ties do not equal affection for us, it’s just easier for kin to feel one another.”

“But you love your sister.”

“Yes, but not because she is my sister. We had always spent a lot of time together, we had similar personalities, we shared a great deal. She is closer to me than any other elf. If we wanted to have a child, we would not have gone looking for other partners.”

“Meaning?” asked Alva cautiously.

“We do not have a notion of incest, as humans do,” explained Ithildin.

“Wonder how long it would take before your customs stop surprising me.”

“Humans do not stop surprising me either. Your life is so rich with feeling. Lielle, you can love so much and so many, you are like the sun that shines on all.”

“Good God, I had never loved anyone nearly as much as I love you!”

“I make no claims on your love, Lielle. Watching you bestow your warmth on others fills me with joy. But I can’t do the same. For me, there is only you.”

Alva was silent for a long time, and Ithildin sensed that his beloved was puzzled and discomfited by what he had just heard. Ithildin had wanted to reassure him, but only seemed to make things worse. This had to do with something people called “responsibility” and “commitment.”

“Then I should take shameless advantage of my power over you,” finally said Alva with a crooked smile. “Promise me, that from now on, you will never make choices about my life on your own.”

“So who can I ask if you are not around?” asked Ithildin quietly.

“Anyone you trust.”

“Yes, Lielle. I promise.”

“And promise never to lie to me, even to save my life.”

“I can’t. Truth hurts too often.”

“Diné, lies hurt much more. And end up serving no purpose. You should have told me everything, and we would have figured it out together, without needing your sacrifices.”

“It was no sacrifice to me.”

“But you were miserable, I could tell!”

“I was miserable because I had to lie to you. Because you could have thought you and your love were not enough for me. Because you were in danger. That’s all I thought about when Fairiz and Rennarte were touching me.”

“So you did not care at all that they were touching you, kissing you?” Alva’s voice shook. “They could have taken you … and you would not have cared?”

“Yes. It does not matter.”

“So you can go to bed with anyone at all? If the price is right?”

So here it was … Ithildin went cold. Again, they had come so close to the abyss that lay between them. Lielle was so wild and passionate, every kiss mattered for him, and sex especially. Even his friendships reflected the physical attraction, and most of his friends had been his lovers in the past. What will Ithildin’s confession make him feel – anger? contempt? pity?

“Yes. If it bothers you, I can vow by everything I hold dear that I’ll never lay with anyone but you.”

“I’d never ask you for this kind of vow.”

“But I am not asking you for anything in return,” hastened Ithildin. “I know that for you, the physical side is important, and perhaps I am not passionate or experienced enough for you …”

That’s when Alva slapped him across the face. Ithildin could have dodged or stopped his hand, but did not.

“You can do as you wish. I will love you no matter what.”

“So what, you’ll let me do anything? No holds barred?” said Alva hoarsely. “You’ll forgive me anything to keep me happy?”

“Yes, Lielle. My life is yours.”

Alva hit him again, harder. “So you’ll let me get away with this, too?” he shouted, furious.

“Anything you want, Lielle.”

“And you let me fuck you, just to keep me happy too?!” Alva practically growled. “Have you ever wanted me as much as I crave you?”

Ithildin’s answer was meticulously honest. “I like making love to you, but I do not care for this side of things as much as you do.”

Alva forced him against the bed, and twisted Ithildin’s frail arms.

“So what, you don’t care if you are caressed or raped? Fight me, damn you. You are stronger than I am!”

“I won’t fight you.” The elf folded his legs around Alva’s waist. “You can take me any time you like.”

Alva let go, lay down next to Ithildin and sobbed. The elf silently put his arms around his lover, and pressed his cheek against Alva’s shaking back.

“It’s too much for me … Don’t want …” gasped Alva in tears. “It’s too … too … I can’t … it’s too hard …”

“Lielle … Tell me, what you want, and I’ll do it.”

“I am only human, and I can’t … I love you, but you’ll never be everything to me.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I am not asking. Just let me love you.”

“I can’t … not this way … I don’t want to hold dominion over your body and your soul.”

“I have no reason to live if you do not want me.” Ithildin felt tears well up. “If you send me off, I will die.”

“Diné …” Alva turned and hugged Ithildin, but leaned back to see his face. Alva’s cheeks were wet with tears. “You said you would do anything I want.”

“It’s true.”

“Please, my love. Do not turn me into the god of your idolatry. I don’t want to be your only reason to live.”

“But I have nothing else,” whispered the elf.

“It’s not love, Ithildin. It’s enslavement. I am no slave-master.” Alva sounded bitter.

Ithildin lowered his head. There was sadness in his voice.

“I don’t know any other kind of love.”

“Can you get mad at me? Deny me anything?”

The elf just shook his head silently.

“What if I order you to go out and fuck someone? I don’t know … Rennarte? Or … or Kintaro!”

That had been a low blow. Alva was being deliberately cruel and knew it.

Ithildin sobbed and tears stream down his face.

“I would do it,” he said quietly.

“You ought to punch me for this,” said Alva, wiping Ithildin’s tears away. “In a way, I want you to hate me as much as you hate him. When you brandished a knife at him, you were more passionate than you had ever been with me.”

He kissed Ithildin and the elf’s clenched lips obediently opened. But Alva only grazed them gently and pulled away.

“I love you,” he sighed. “Forgive me. I forget that you are an elf, not a man. You will have plenty of opportunities to hate me when we are stuck in that mountain fort. A month there and I’ll go berserk, nobody will be safe from me. So you have to promise you would never let me hit you.”

“Promise,” said the elf, relieved, and smiled tentatively.

They hugged and lay close, limbs intertwined. Alva hid his face against Ithildin’s chest. He had been quiet for a long time, thinking, and suddenly he spoke in a dull monotone.

“My first lover used to beat me. I had to use makeup all the time, to hide bruises. He was madly jealous, drank and then could not control himself. Then, the next day, he would weep, beg me to forgive him and bring gifts. I forgave him every time. I would have forgiven him anything. I was only seventeen, and I was in love with a man for the first time in my life. I thought, here it was – the real thing, till death do us part, the maddening passion of the romance kind! I thought I could tame him with my gentle love. … Moron. That just provoked him further.

“He took me to his estate and lost all restraint. He treated me as a … I don’t even want to remember it anymore. Lei took me away from that nightmare. I would not risk coming near a man for the next few years. Ozra and Weistle went at me for three months before getting me into bed, and even then they had to get me good and drunk. Since then, I live in terror of letting anyone have any power over me. That I would be so beholden again. Or that anyone would be beholden to me.”

“I know you would never be like that with me,” whispered the elf.

“I would not be so sure if I were you,” said Alva bitterly. “If you only knew my father … He was jot-tempered, cruel sometimes, and I am probably more like him than it might seem. They were lovers, he and the King – the Crown Prince at the time – and the King’s sister wrote a novel about them. Everyone in Trianess had read it. She had changed the names of course, but everyone knew. There was so much that went on between them … They nearly killed each other one time!”

“Do you know, the King still loves your father,” Ithildin said affectionately. “A man who elicits such love, could never do anything bad.”

Only after the trial, when the fear for his lover’s life had abated, the elf realized how much the King had done to save Alva, and went to thank him. Ithildin gave the King one of the very few things he had brought from Greyna Thialle: it was a small mirror in a silver frame carved with leaves and flowers. The work of an elven jeweler-mage, it would show whomever the owner held dear.

When the King glanced into the mirror, his eyes welled up, and the elf cursed himself for – not knowing human customs – bringing on this pain. But then the King smiled through the tears and showed the mirror to Ithildin. At first, the elf thought he saw Alva’s face, but quickly realized that he was mistaken. The man in the mirror had sharper features, hair and eyes slightly darker. His jaw was set, and his gaze held the stern determination Alva’s never showed.

“Thank you, my boy,” said Daronghi. He embraced and kissed Ithildin. “This is a princely gift, indeed. This man is Rudra Ruatta, as my memory has preserved him. Alva’s father.”

“I had not really known him. I was twelve, when he set off to find Irshawan and vanished in the Storm Belt,” mumbled Alva.

“They had been happy together, in spite of everything. I saw it in the King’s eyes when he spoke about your father.”

Alva sighed, “Your sacrifices will not be making me happy, my love.”

And the elf’s eyes held a silent promise, “Then I will find another way, Lielle. Even if it takes years.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_The love story of Chevalier Ruatta, Alva's father, and Daronghi Dancennou, the Crown Prince of Creede, is told in the book[Royal Blood](https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/641880), available on Smashwords for 0.99$. It's hot, passionate, packed with steamy gay sex with a hint of rape and coercion (but only a hint, or even a slight tint)._

[](https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/641880)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**10.**

The moment he heard Alva was kidnapped, Kintaro offered his services to the King. Daronghi gently declined. The Essanti knew nothing of Creede and would not be helpful. Besides, the King could not let a troop of armed barbarians ride about his country, even if they had been allies in the last campaign. A stranger to inactivity, Kintaro locked himself in and drank the night away in solitude.

Ithildin came knocking in the morning. Kintaro had sprawled in a chair, feet up on the desk. The elf stood facing him.

“Yo, what have we here,” drawled the Essanti, predatory glint in his eyes. “Nobody to fuck you, now Alva is gone?”

The elf ignored Kintaro’s jab. He said, dispassionate as always, “Alva is in mortal peril. Only you can help.”

“Mortal peril, yeah. I know one little elf slut that got him up the shit-creek with no paddle. You, and the likes of you, doll-face, ought to be chained up by the bed, and never set loose on decent people.”

Ithildin blushed pink in shame, but did not flinch.

“Help me save him.”

“Why would I,” the Essanti cocked an eyebrow and poured some more wine.

“He had been your lover.”

“He passed me up, and don’t pretend to not know. It’s you he chose, the whoring little elf, ready to spread for anyone. Serves him right.”

“You are lying,” said Ithildin, “you don’t wish him dead, and not in the dreadful way the Enqins have in store for him.”

Kintaro leapt up and threateningly loomed over the elf.

“So what, doll-face,” he drew out the words, “So what if I pretend not to notice that you called me a liar and listen to you? What do you know that could save him?”

“I had a vision. I know where Alva will be handed over to the Enqins. We can still catch up to them, before he gets to Targhai.”

“Visions! Dreams!” Kintaro sneered and sat back. “Elf nonsense! You must be out of your mind if you expect me to believe in this drivel!”

But his gaze betrayed him. His eyes bore through the elf, seeking an answer. He wanted to believe. Ithildin’s stared him down with the same determination.

“How much do you know about the Enqin customs?” he asked.

Kintaro waved his hand – “more or less.”

“If my visions are nonsense, how would I know the Enqins cut the captive’s hair and burn it before the tortures?”

That was exactly what Ithildin saw in his vision: Alva’s fiery locks tumbling to the ground from the henchman’s knife … his naked body painted with black whorls – ropes tying him to a post … And then … That’s when Ithildin had screamed, making the image shatter. This was only one of the possible futures, but so terrifying, that his teeth chattered at the memory. It would come to pass if he failed to prevent it.

Now Kintaro was roused.

“Name the place,” he demanded.

“It was a hill, shaped like a horse, and the horse’s stone head was by a spring. Looked like a shrine.”

“I know it. But it is far beyond the Enqins’ lands.” The chieftain frowned in thought. “Only if they want to avoid Selkhir … That Selkhir garrison commander, short-haired broad, she and Alva are old pals, right?”

Ithildin nodded. “Yes, they have been friends for a long time.”

“Makes sense!” Kintaro slapped his thigh. “That way is heavily patrolled now, a mouse wouldn’t sneak past. So they would go by Niyar and head to Jefflah, going south-east, then down south…”

He rose and paced the room. Then, something else occurring to him, he turned and spoke to the elf again. “Why did you come to me instead of the King?”

“Only you can track the Enqins through the Wild Steppe. Please, find them. Don’t let Alva die. Or at least give him an easy death, not the kind Enqins intend for him.”

“Aren’t you worried my help might cost you?” Kintaro grinned and stood close.

“I have money. How much do you want?”

“When did I mention money? Money is as dust. I trade for pleasure. What can you tempt me with, doll-face?” Kintaro appraised Ithildin, as he would merchandise on display.

“I’ll do anything you wish, only help me save him.”

“Anything?” The Essanti’s smile was outright lewd.

Ithildin kneeled before Kintaro and undid his belt. Kintaro looked on, still grinning. He clearly enjoyed humiliating the elf, and did not stop him until the elf was tugging at lacing on his pants.

“I’ve had you before. Nothing special,” said the chieftain pushing away Ithildin’s hands.

Ithildin quivered, desperate. Eyes to the ground, he mumbled, “I have learned a great deal, I am more adept at lovemaking now. You will enjoy it more if I pleasure you willingly.”

“Haggling, doll-face? Become one hell of a whore, have you?”

“Call me anything you want, but help me save Alva.”

“What if I wanted more? Wanted you to leave Alva for good, and without saying a word to him?”

Ithildin would have agreed without hesitation, but the thought of parting from Lielle forever was so painful, his throat closed at first. He mastered it, and answered quietly, “I would do it.”

“Leave your lover? Give him over to me?”

“But he would live.”

“And what if I told you to go back to the Essanti, where you would get humped by all and sundry once again?”

The elf suddenly laughed, bitter and angry, and said, “I had left my people for him. Think there’s still something I would not do for him?”

Kintaro reflected for a bit, and motioned for the elf to rise.

“Wait for me here. I will be back in an hour and we’ll leave right away. I’ll choose my own reward once it’s over.”

**11.**

Ithildin fled from the capital with Kintaro and his men in utmost secrecy. He was dressed as a barbarian, and rode a shaggy horse of the steppe-dwellers. The Essanti crossed Creede’s borders and turned to the southeast. Kintaro wanted to cut across the Enqins’ trail, afraid to miss them in Niyar.

The flat endless steppe stretched, monotonously, everywhere you looked, but the chief drove his men with certitude, relying on signs known only to him. They almost never paused to rest, and Ithildin fleetingly marveled at the strength of this people that could nearly match that of the Ancient Race.

He expected Kintaro to claim him as soon as they stopped, but this did not happen. Caught in the pursuit, the chief hardly paid Ithildin any attention. Absorbed in the chase, he all but forgot about the elf. Ithildin was also ready to be at the disposal of any barbarian. Most of them had lain with him at some point, more than once, and he remembered them. Some of them he did not remember – either he had been unconscious, or they were too superstitious to lie with an elf. But they all remembered him – naked, collared to a post. The elf could read the memory on their faces, as they pointed at him, smirking and nudging one another. But it did not matter.

Nothing mattered to Ithildin except saving Alva’s life. Kintaro could order him to strip any time, and the elf would have obeyed instantly, lain down quietly, and endured whatever the nomads wanted to inflict on him, just as he had been prepared to endure Fairiz’s crude assaults and Rennarte’s sophisticated lechery. But it looked as if the chief had given orders, and all the Essanti left the elf alone. Ithildin noted the fact remotely, not even relieved.

He knew, without a doubt, that he’d give his life for Alva at any moment. His only regret would be about not seeing again Alva’s smile, never again looking in his shining green eyes. But would that make Lielle happy? He was not sure. Alva did love him, in spite of all their differences, and this was a miracle, Ithildin thought. The gorgeous Chevalier Ahayrre could bestow his love on anyone, any courtier, and they all would take it for a greatest honor. Alva could even have picked this barbarian chieftain, with his wild steppe passionate ways that the elf could never match. 

Alva’s life was now in Kintaro’s hands. This disposed the elf more kindly towards the chief, and he could look at him now without cringing, without the flashbacks of the gleaming steel, blood, pain, suffering, dust of the steppe. He had seen Kintaro in battle, and now, after the fall campaign, was certain that Kintaro was a peerless warrior. He will find the Enqins and free Alva. The nightmare vision did not beset Ithildin any more, and that meant they had changed the future, or at least delayed it.

For the first time in his life, the elf regretted not being able to do magic. Still, he had not planned on being a dead weight. During their week-long chase, Ithildin obsessively went over every detail of his vision in his head: the enemy’s strength, their weapons, the sun’s position, the horse carrying the nude and bound Alva.

The elf’s mount loped across the steppe, the sun rose and set, but Ithildin’s mind never stopped. He strained to hear Alva, to feel him, to penetrate the veil of the future, picture the unfolding of the events and prepare for action. Lielle was getting closer every day, and, finally, Ithildin could catch distant snatches of his emotions – fleeting and barely discernable. Lielle was unharmed, a little frightened, but still did not despair of being rescued.

Such was Alva’s nature: not to be dispirited even in the face of death. Ithildin saw it in his visions: the blood-stained lips that barely move, so the henchman moves closer to hear a plea for mercy … and, furious, slaps the victim – who still dares to jeer – across the face; but even that does not wipe off the insolent grin, and he still laughs at his captors.

~~~

“We’ll cross them tomorrow,” said Kintaro when they stopped to camp.

The barbarian was unusually subdued. There was no need to ask what he meant. Ithildin approached Kintaro who had sat away from everyone, hoping to talk uninterrupted.

“Are we gonna die, doll-face?” Kintaro asked. He did not sound scared, merely curious. “What do your visions say?”

“My visions never reflect my own destiny, only those I care for,” answered the elf evenly.

“Hah, so that’s why you were so surprised when you met with the Essanti last year.” The chief smirked to his private thoughts.

The elf shivered, but got a hold of himself and his voice had remained steady. “You don’t expect to win?”

“They are a hundred, and we are fifty,” Kintaro observed, nonchalant. “Not the best set-up. You said they were covered in red paint. Seasoned warriors, the best of the best. All armed with bow and arrows. An open space, and wind blowing our way.”

“Then why attack them by day?”

“Because at night, they will set up in the hills and shoot at every noise. Even if we do make it to their camp, they’d stab our sweet redhead once the going gets tough.”

“We have to attack day after tomorrow.”

“What, premonitions again? After tomorrow is a no-go. They could get reinforcements.”

“Day after tomorrow, at noon, there will be a solar eclipse.”

The chief clutched at the elf’s hand. “How do you know this?” he asked sharply.

Ithildin’s response was curt. “We just feel it.”

“An eclipse, I’ll be damned,” repeated Kintaro in almost childish awe. “Gods are certainly on our side. We’ll attack then.”

**12.**

They passed one more day in the saddle, on a course that would gradually cross the Enqins’. The Essanti set up camp for the night. Kintaro never went to sleep; he paced the grounds, thinking about their strategy. He was nervous, but did not show it, and the elf was surprised to realize that he was picking up on Kintaro’s mood. Probably, they were brought closer by thinking about the same person.

The next day, they met the Enqins exactly when they wanted, thanks to the elf’s abilities and the chief’s intuition. At midday, they were an arrow’s flight away, bow-strings drawn, and the black shadow encroached on the sun, obscuring the daylight.

The Enqins were brave, battle-seasoned, but superstitious like all the barbarians. The eclipse distracted them, and some even let down their bows, pointing skyward with a cry. The Essanti, warned by Kintaro, loosed their arrows as one, mowing the enemy down. Within minutes, darkness engulfed the steppe, and, under its cover, the Essanti crashed into the Enqins. The flame-edged black disc coldly stared from the sky at the massacre.

Ithildin, holding two spare horses, had stayed out of battle on Kintaro’s orders. He could see with his elf night vision even through the dark and kept on shooting, and each arrow he shot found its mark. When the dark lifted, the two sides were matched more evenly, but the outcome of the battle was still impossible to predict.

At last, Ithildin saw Kintaro reach Lielle, pull him off the horse and put him across his lap, covering him with his shield. The elf’s arrows cleared a path for him through the melée and he galloped over with his prize. As the elf kept attackers at bay, Kintaro cut Lielle’s ropes, wrapped him in a cloak and sat him upright in the saddle of a spare horse.

“You’ll get some clothes later, though you look better naked,” barked Kintaro. “Let’s go.”

Kintaro’s horse had been wounded, so he abandoned it for another. Lielle had not yet come to his senses, and could not speak. The elf was afraid to look his way, for fear of losing his cool. They spurred their horses away.

In a few hours, they made a quick stop, set Alva on the grass and checked him over for wounds. They both kept asking, “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

“They did not touch me. Did not even rape me,” said Alva as he came out of his stupor. He giggled nervously, “Hope I don’t have to shed copious tears right this moment in profuse gratitude for being rescued? Because if I start, I am afraid I won’t stop.”

Lielle had, indeed, been unharmed, save for a couple of bruises on his limbs, but was gaunt and weak. Kintaro poured some wine down his throat and lifted him back in the saddle. They had to fly like the wind, and Kintaro could not load his own horse with any extra weight. By nightfall, there was no longer a risk of pursuit, but there was still the danger of running into the Enqin or Eutangha patrols. The three men had barely traded a word during the whole day.

“What about your warriors?” Ithildin asked.

“They will hold up the Enqins. Or lead them away.”

“Will they … come back?”

“The ones who live,” said Kintaro curtly. 

They did not sleep that night. Lielle dozed as they went, so Ithildin and Kintaro took turns sharing their mounts with him. Ithildin quietly rejoiced as he watched his beloved, alive and well, but he fretted: there was a long road through unfriendly lands before them, and it was too early to assume safety.

They were in luck and got to Niyar uneventfully, though a few times they had to go down to the ground, and their horses too, on a sign from Kintaro. Well-trained horses stayed down soundlessly in the long grass, not even twitching. Once, they spent three hours that way, as the elf caught sight of a Eutangha patrol passing along the horizon.

At Niyar, they met up with the main Essanti force led by Inagi, Kintaro’s lover and right-hand man. They had left to give help as soon as Kintaro’s messenger had reached them from the Creedan border. Ithildin and Alva were now safely escorted to the Essanti camp. Given the events of the last few days, Alva was going to be safer there than anyplace else.

A day later, Kintaro’s men who had stayed to fight the Enqins, returned. Every single one had been wounded or scraped, but no more than ten had died, even though the enemies outnumbered them two to one. They probably had been in plenty of skirmishes along the way too. Ithildin realized he was secretly happy that during the Great War four thousand years back, the nomads had not been around yet, else the Ancient Race would have been annihilated.

Even as it was, for most mortals, the elves had become nothing more than a myth, a legend. Ithildin was the first elf the Creedans had seen in hundreds of years.

And he knew that he had been the first of the Ancient Race in centuries, to know people so well, to live among them. This knowledge was both a joy and a heavy burden. Every day among the mercurial mortals changed him irrevocably, and nothing of an elf might be left in him at the journey’s end. But Ithildin was prepared to pay this price.

_THE END OF CHAPTER 3_


	4. Chapter 4

**1.**

Outside, fires blazed and shouts mingled with drunken singing. Yet another Essanti feast Ithildin was watching from the chief’s tent. Except now he was not a despised captive, but an honored guest, who had fought alongside the Essanti and their chief. Nevertheless…

The elf sighed. He was still bound – by his own word. Lielle is alive and well, thanks to Kintaro, who will be naming his price any day now. The elf could well imagine what it would be: during their last oh-so-memorable conversation the chief had been clear enough. Ithildin was grateful at least that Kintaro had let him be alone with his beloved, probably for the last time, and had not come to pester them all night.

Ithildin was gazing tenderly at his lover. In the tent’s twilight, lit up only by a few oil-burning lamps, Lielle was so beautiful. He lay in Ithildin’s arms half-drunk, inebriated by caresses, voluptuous blush on his cheeks, green eyes glistening. The elf played with Alva’s hair, unshorn for over a month, kissed his chapped lips, his arms covered in rope burns, and felt happy. But how long would the happiness last?

“Hell, am I drunk!” purred Alva. “Wanna take advantage of my plight?” He winked at the elf playfully, and ran a hand along the elf’s thigh.

Ithildin responded with a smile and a kiss. “You ought to rest, Lielle.”

“Never too tired for this.” Alva moved closer.

Ithildin knew how demanding his lover could be in the grip of arousal. But now, Lielle was too drunk and too exhausted by the hardships of the last month. Ithildin wanted to keep the cozy warmth of their embrace (which, truth be told, he prized more than the fire of passion).

When Lielle was really turned on, he could make even the cool elfish blood boil, but now, Ithildin sensed, gentle tenderness was all he wanted. As if the incident with Rennarte had cooled him off, the elf thought a touch bitterly. Lielle did not blame him, was not angry, did not love him less, but he was less sure somehow, as if not knowing how to act. So the elf did not dare suggest lovemaking to him. Besides, they were in a chief’s tent and Kintaro could enter any minute…

…and did. His tall frame blocked the entrance for a while, but then he pushed through, bent-over, and threw himself on the pelts beside the two of them.

“Can’t hold your liquor, northerner,” he laughed.

“Least I sober up quickly,” Alva said sullenly. “And anyway …”

He tried to rise off Ithildin’s knees, and jabbed a finger at Kintaro’s chest. “Bet that wine of yours is half hooch, it’s too strong.”

“Yeah, you are civilized, only used to grape-flavored sugar water.”

“The Creedan wines are the best on the continent, just so you know,” Alva shot back.

Kintaro laughed. Alva was lying shamelessly: wines counted best on the continent came from seashore vineyards of Marrangha.

“The Creedan lovers are best, I’ll give you that,” said the Essanti, not bothering to conceal the lust lighting up his eyes, and put his hand on the young man’s knee.

Alva snorted.

“Been waiting for you to cut to the chase. Can’t say it took you long.”

“I haven’t suggested anything yet, my sweet,” the chief laughed. The way he was looking at the half-naked Alva – there was no doubt about his intentions.

He was ignoring Ithildin, who had to close his eyes for a moment. The elf could not endure the barbarian’s predatory gaze and the feral lust he exuded.

“You suggested plenty by putting us up in your tent,” Alva snorted. “Shall I strip right now? Or in five minutes?”

The Essanti moved closer. His hand traveled up Alva’s leg and stroked his inner thigh. Ithildin saw how his beloved, unaware, opened his knees slightly and how his tongue darted over his lips. Lielle would lose this one battle, especially after that pitcher of wine had made him so easy, pliant and wanton...

“See, I thought you’d want to thank me personally for saving your sorry ass,” Kintaro purred.

“With that very ass.”

“Your choice. I like your pretty mouth too.”

He inserted one knee between Alva’s legs, then pushed them apart, and moved in the other knee. Now, through Alva’s pants, he stroked the delicate skin of his thighs. He hung over Alva, and Alva leaned back, hardly realizing how tantalizing he looked.

“What if I say no?” The young man was licking his lips again.

“Then I’ll leave. Spend the night with someone else. My men don’t pass me up.” Kintaro grinned, pressing closer.

“Like I'd believe you. You are not the give up easily kind.”

“Who says I’d be giving up?”

Kintaro pulled Alva close in by the neck, and cut off his objections with a hungry kiss. Alva wanted to push him away, but then let his hands slide helplessly down the barbarian’s chest. When the kiss broke, both were breathing heavily. Kintaro toppled Alva back on the furs, lay on top of him, lips glued to Alva’s neck, and stuck a hand down Alva’s pants. The young man moaned weakly, and his eyelashes fluttered.

“You can still refuse,” growled Kintaro in his ear.

“So you have an excuse to rape me,” Alva tried to laugh.

“Dream on, northerner. Why don’t you admit you like it rough?”

“I don’t …” Alva’s voice caught; he whimpered when Kintaro licked his earlobe. “Ithildin …”

“Your elf can join in too,” said Kintaro and briefly let go. He grabbed Ithildin by the wrist and yanked him over. “A three-way is not against your religion, is it, doll-face?”

The elf tore away. He could not utter a word, and silently backed towards the exit, still gazing at his Lielle who now burned with lust in another’s embrace.

“Alva, I will not force you. One word. Yes or no?”

“Am I in a position to refuse?”

“Next you’ll be telling me it’s your sense of duty giving you a hard-on!”

“Damn … Kintaro …” gasped the young man, eyes shut. “Don’t leave, Diné, if you go …”

Ithildin staggered out of the tent and closed the flap.

**2.**

Some distance away, the elf fell face down in the grass. He wanted to stopper his ears from Alva’s cries and moans, but suddenly realized he was straining to hear them instead. Imagining two naked bodies, one bronzed, one golden, twisting in the wild dance of passion; Lielle’s pupils, dark and huge, unseeing eyes, half-opened scarlet lips, and the barbarian’s strong fingers clutching at his lover’s hips, his feral grin, beads of sweat on his temples, black braids snaking down his shoulders when he moves to the delirious beat, faster and faster, until … Ithildin sighed realizing he had been holding his breath the last few minutes.

Lielle always cried this way when he orgasmed under a man. Kintaro liked to hear his lovers cry. They were a good match. Great gods, how well they were matched – the barbarian and the aristocrat, the man he hated and the man he adored, the one who lay with him first, and the one who lay with him last … They were together now, and he …

The elf shuddered and sat up when he heard footsteps. Even if he could not see in the dark, he would have recognized Kintaro by the way he moved. And even if he could not see in the dark, he would have known the chief was ready to go at it again, because he has had a chance to experience his potency personally.

“Your turn, doll-face,” smirked the Essanti.

“As you wish.” The elf rose and began to take off his tunic.

“Not here,” Kintaro yanked him. “Come.”

Ithildin lost it immediately, gasped and shook his head. “No, please!”

He clutched at the barbarian trying to pull him down to the ground. “I don’t want him to see this … please.”

Kintaro laughed, threw the elf over his shoulder and strode to the tent. There, he dropped the elf to the floor in a heap, and began undressing him. Ithildin obediently let his tunic and pants be pulled off. Throughout the ordeal, he kept looking away, at his Lielle. Alva lay on the floor, arms thrown behind his head, naked, spent and languid; his hair was tangled, his skin glistened with sweat. When he finally noticed what was happening, he rose on his elbow and watched Kintaro, surprised.

“Kintaro, let him be,” said Alva. He caressed the barbarian’s thigh. “Come here instead.”

“I said I’d choose my own prize when I free you from the Enqins. And he agreed,” said Kintaro, grinning.

“That’s true, Alva,” the elf assented, listless.

“I choose. My prize is the two of you.”

Alva sat up. He sounded completely sober now. “Let him be, chief. I will not allow it.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll like it. The sweet little elf wants me, yes?” Then, with one hand, Kintaro clenched the elf’s wrists, and, with another, grabbed his chin to cover the elf’s mouth with his.

Kintaro’s words were so insulting that Ithildin froze at first, not quite believing what he had heard, and then his assumed indifference shattered to hell. The elf thrashed violently trying to push the barbarian away. When Kintaro had let go of his mouth, the elf was in a frenzy.

“You! You! How dare you! I never …” he spat out a few more words in his own tongue, the more damning kind.

“Stop it, Kintaro!” shouted Alva.

“Why do you think he is flipping out? He is too chicken to admit, ‘s all. Not even to himself.”

“What tripe! He hates you!”

“My ass he does! I saved his life!”

“After attacking them and killing his kin, and …”

“Oh, that’s what he told you!” Kintaro laughed. “Yes, naturally, the elves do not lie, they merely omit. Perhaps he omitted who had loosed the first arrow? How he shot a fifteen-year old who rode up to them, unarmed? Who had ordered the elves to attack?”

Ithildin felt that his face was on fire. It was true, he had been responsible for the slaughter. The Essanti would have fought them anyway. And if not, if they had ridden past, they might have taken up Miri’s trail. Ithildin could not allow it.

“Kintaro, what the fuck! Stop it!” Alva tried to pull Kintaro off the elf. “I just don’t want to listen. You trip down memory lane – shove it!”

“Alva, take the blinkers off! Can’t you see how he shivers whenever I touch him? Give me five minutes, and he’ll beg me!”

Kintaro, smirking, illustrated by running his hands over the elf’s torso. Ithildin was gulping the air, wanting to thrash blindly, barely restraining himself. The barbarian’s touch seared his skin.

“You are nuts!” Alva clutched at Kintaro’s shoulder. “First you raped him and then tossed him to your sons-of-bitches to maul, and now you dare …”

“They would have killed him otherwise, and that would have been a waste. “Boned or bones” – the Essanti custom.”

“You should have killed me, with the rest of them.” The elf spat every word out through clenched teeth, his voice hoarse. His nostrils flared and he was looking daggers at Kintaro. “I’d rather be dead. I had prayed to die! You could, but you had let me live, you refused to kill me!”

“Yeah, tell us how you wanted to die,” said the Essanti. “Any elf can stop his heart any time he wants.”

“You lie! We can only do it in extremis, in the face of utter disgrace, and have to wish for death more than …”

The elf fell silent when he realized what he had just said.

Kintaro leaned over him, grinning.

“Right you are, doll-face. And you had plenty of chances. Throw yourself on a sword, die in battle. We were holding you at knife-point, one twitch and no more elfy! But no, you never twitched. Even when my men were fucking you, you let them. You could have fought to the very end and welcomed a hero’s death.”

Horror-struck, Ithildin stared at the chief as if he were a judge meting out a harsh but just punishment. He was so used to thinking that he would choose death over shame! But in reality, he wanted to live, wanted to live so desperately he was willing to take what came his way even after he knew how it was going to be. He was cowered not by pain, but by the promise of death he had read in his captors’ eyes. And it was not death he had prayed for, but freedom, even though, at the time, the two had seemed the same.

He had chosen this path himself. Now he understood.

“So what now?” hissed the elf. “Think that makes me hate you less? Think I’ll forget you were the first to defile me?”

“I captured you, doll-face. Right of conquest.” Kintaro came even closer and planted a rough kiss on the elf’s lips. “It’s an honour to spread for a chieftain,” he mocked.

The elf drew back one hand and slapped the barbarian with all his might, but the Essanti did not even flinch. Grinning, he caught the elf’s wrist again and pinned it to the floor.

“If you could choose who’d fuck you first, you’d choose me. Admit you’ve always liked me. Say how you’ve pleasured me for weeks in this very tent, just so I would not toss you back to the crowd by the campfire.”

“Alva, it's false,” cried Ithildin. “He simply brought me to his tent sometimes so nobody else would touch me! He just feared I’d die too soon! He did not touch me either, I was just filth to him!”

The barbarian laughed. The elf looked pleadingly at Lielle, begging him to intervene and shield him from humiliation. But Lielle just looked at them pensively and twirled his long hair.

“I do not relish rape, doll-face.”

“Right, you just raped me for my own good!”

“Right. He did the same thing.”

“He saved me; you turned me into a whore!”

“So better to have gelded you and sent you to the women? To wash the pots and tan the leathers?”

“So now I have to owe you?” the elf shouted, filled with hatred. “Go on, fuck me, that’s what you want. Go for it! Want gratitude, take me, what are you waiting for, bastard, son-of-a-bitch, beast, mother-fucker, you …”

The elf spat out hoarse curses, face contorted, fists clenched; he struggled to break away from Kintaro. Blinding fury tore down his self-control; he wanted to rip at Kintaro’s throat, hit him, wipe the self-assured smirk off his face. He was not even noticing that, for the first time in his life, his was uttering the vile human invectives, the crude turns of phrases he had memorized, in spite of himself, in taverns and barracks he had frequented with Lielle.

“Glad we agreed on something,” growled Kintaro and closed his fingers around the elf’s hard member.

Ithildin felt scorching shame when he realized how much the struggle had aroused him. Shocking … it had only been Lielle before … He did not get to the end of this particular thought, because, at that very moment, Kintaro kissed him, forcefully running his tongue into Ithildin’s mouth, his hot body over the elf’s and his fingers rhythmically stroking the elf’s penis.

Waves of heat rolled through the elf’s body, red fog rose before his eyes, and madness consumed him. With a strangled cry, he pulled his hands free from the barbarian’s grip, dug his nails into the dusky broad shoulders, and wrapped his legs around the strong hips, rising to meet him, attacking his lips with the full force of his raging desire.

Ithildin remembered only vaguely how they both kept stroking him, how Lielle’s tongue went for his most intimate spots, as he gasped and whimpered, while Kintaro preyed on his mouth and fondled his nipples; how they made him spend and used his silvery spunk for lubricant, how the barbarian took him from behind, while Lielle rubbed against his front, kissed his lips, his chest, his neck, caressed him, and then there were stars beneath his eyelids, and then, for a while, there was nothing because he fainted for the first time in his two hundred fifty years. He came to his senses caught between Lielle and Kintaro, both still turned on, and soon the elf could not distinguish who was touching him or whose flesh was piercing him.

**3.**

Ithildin woke up in the later afternoon: his head rested upon a muscled bronzed thigh, and Lielle’s tousled locks spread across his chest. Lielle’s delicate hand still clutched at the elf’s cock, as if it were a favorite toy. The smell that always accompanies lovemaking hung heavy in the tent – the smell of men’s heated bodies, semen and sweat; with a permeating note of orange-scented oil that Ithildin had grabbed for Lielle when leaving Trianess, because Alva loved it and all but drank the stuff.

The memories of last night (and last morning, if he wanted to be a stickler about it) were fairly confused, but what he did remember made him shut his eyes. As if, by blocking out daylight, he would stop picturing the night’s debauchery, how he had rolled on the pelts with the barbarian, like a rutting animal. He had no excuse now – not rape, not trying to please his lover. It had been filthy and revolting, his mind insisted coldly. Ah, but it was sweet, sung his body still seized in the hot grip of memory.

He must have twitched then, because Alva woke up and raised his head. His green eyes opened sleepily; he looked at the elf, kissed him, and asked, “Are you alright?

“N-not sure...”

“Your voice is gone.”

“I was screaming?”

“Yep. In the Ancient Tongue. Like we were putting a stake through you. I’d scream too, but I had my mouth full.” Lielle smiled lasciviously.

Ithildin blushed and hid his eyes. The knee he had been lying on moved, and Kintaro sat up and stretched.

“For a night like this, I could take on the Enqins, and Selkhir, if I had to, and maybe even Trianess,” he said, happily.

Alva giggled. “Selkhir, hah – Lei would have you through every orifice till you beg for mercy!”

“No woman beats a hot boy.” Then Kintaro reflected, and added, “Two hot boys.”

“Who is a boy here?” Alva jabbed Kintaro’s side playfully. “I am at least a couple of years older than you, and as for the elf …”

“But I fuck the two of you, not the other way around.”

“You so logical,” agreed Alva, his smile beatific, “and you planning to feed us, or what? Get me a piece of meat and a jug of wine, I’ll fuck your entire tribe.”

Kintaro roared with mirth. His teeth gleamed large and white. Outside, someone called to him, the chieftain answered, and a dark youth they had met up with in Niyar peeked into the tent. Ithildin knew him from before. The youth had never touched him, but he was Kintaro’s lover, and Ithildin had often witnessed their romps.

The youth looked avidly at the naked lovers, and said a few words in the oman, the language of the warriors. Every one of the Wild Steppe tribes spoke its own dialect of the Common Tongue made unrecognizable by the thick barbarian accent and words invented or borrowed from other languages. Within three months, the elf had started to pick up a bit of the Essanti oman, and most of it, predictably, had to do with sex. So he understood the gist of the young warrior’s words.

“Inagi says he would have been jealous of the two of you, if you were not so beautiful. At least, that’s the polite version,” said the chief and laughed again.

“So what did he really say?” Alva turned to look at the new arrival.

“Oh, my sweet, do you really want to hear what each and everyone of my men would like to do to you?”

“Don’t think it would be news to me.” Lielle laughed. “But good to keep in mind, if you are no longer enough.”

Kintaro brought them wine, water, a plate of bread, meats and a small steppe melon, sliced. Then he suddenly disappeared, hand around Inagi’s waist. His intentions were obvious, especially since he did not even bother to get dressed. When Ithildin understood they would be free of Kintaro for the next few hours, he visibly relaxed. He had been wound taut like a bow-string the last while, and only realized it now.

**4.**

Instead of going at the food right away, Lielle lay down next to the elf, put a head on his shoulder and quietly asked, “So, my love, what are we to do?”

The elf’s lips trembled. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“Yesterday, you did not need any asking.”

Ithildin was assailed by gloom. He could only whisper, “Forgive me, Lielle … I … I do not understand … This man … Gods, I hate him …”

He tried to put his hands over his face, but Lielle did not let him and turned the elf to face him.

“Diné, why not admit that you had liked last night. I would not have let him touch you otherwise.”

Ithildin was quiet, only his face twitched, as if he were in pain.

“It’s base, it’s filthy, it’s humiliating!” he finally managed, choking back tears. “I don’t know how I could … could let him … I did not want to!”

“But you did not say “no” to him.”

Ithildin could not understand why his lover did not reproach or despise him, because now he had every reason.

“I had lost all self-control … I let my instincts take over my mind.”

“Maybe losing self-control is a good thing, sometimes?” Lielle touched Ithildin’s cheek. “You know that the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Why not just enjoy it, as long as we are here?”

“I can’t …” wailed the elf. “Anybody else, I would not have cared … but this, with this …”

Now Lielle cooed, “But you like him, no? You can’t help liking him, he so big, so strong, so hot … You like how kisses you, takes you, mounts you, dominates you …”

The elf moaned and closed his eyes, feeling luxurious warmth slowly spread through him.

“I don’t want him, but … my body … I can’t stop …”

“Why fight yourself?” whispered Lielle in his ear. “The forces are too unevenly matched.”

“I cannot betray our love.”

“But I could never arouse such passion within you.”

“I would never insult you with a feeling so base!” exclaimed Ithildin so frightened, that his mind cleared at once.

“All I can say is – too bad. Sometimes, being the object of veneration could get tiresome. I wonder what it would take to get you to pounce on me like you were a hungry beast.”

Ithildin blushed. The very thought was obscene. How could he ever view his Lielle with anything other than love and tenderness? Had they met and fallen in love before the elf’s capture, he would never have overcome the shame of accepting the physical aspect of human love. This meant … that the suffering he had endured in captivity was not meaningless after all. The clarity of this realization scared Ithildin. Then, the Essanti chief had been only an instrument of fate, and the elf had no choice.

Lielle was looking at him, seriously and a touch sadly. He said, “You look even more miserable now than you were when I had caught you with Fairiz and Rennarte.”

“I had never been unable to master myself before,” answered Ithildin quietly. “It’s hard to get used to.”

“This time, nobody is forcing you, my love. Even if you think you owe him something for me, you have discharged any kind of debt last night. Just say “no” to him, and he won’t touch you.”

“And you?”

Lielle sighed. “Me … it’s more complicated for me. First of all, I can’t say “no” to him. I mean, I can, but only up to a point. Until he kisses me or gets into my pants. And, besides, even if I could … What am I supposed to do? He saved my life. And you and I are completely in his power here. I am reluctant to mention leaving, because I do not care to hear that he is not letting me go.”

Ithildin could not help smiling. His lover was not even aware of his naive coquetry. Seemed a shame to burst his bubble.

“Lille, he means it, when he says he would not force you. He would not keep you here if you wanted to leave.”

Alva glanced at the elf and bit his lower lip, sighing.

“Fine, I can’t deny he turns me on like mad. But I only love you, Diné.” He brought Ithildin’s hand to his lips. “I could give him up for you. Stay close to me, hold me, and he won’t stand a chance.”

Ithildin shook his head.

“No, Lielle, I will not rob you of enjoyment. Maybe I even … like …” he stopped and felt terribly ashamed at what he was about to say, but went on, blushing and whispering “... like to watch you, when you … you and him. You are so beautiful when you are making love!”

Ithildin’s skin burned like it would be bursting into flames any second now. He turned away, trying to hide his confusion, and pulled over the dish with food.

“You must be hungry, Lielle?”

“Ravenous. Wouldn’t risk putting anything but food in my mouth.” How lecherous of Lielle!

The elf could not help snorting. Coming out of noble Chevalier Ahayre’s mouth, even obscenities sounded chic.

**5.**

Kintaro came back at dusk. He was naked, braids half-undone, and filled the tent with his large body and deep voice. While he was away, Ithildin and Alva lay entwined, going over the weeks they had spent apart. But they were already kissing right before Kintaro showed up, slow and tender, desire building. They sprung apart when Kintaro entered, as if caught.

“I’m just in the nick of time,” said Kintaro wedging between them and grabbing Ithildin. “This time, doll-face, I’ll start with you.”

Face twisted in anguish, the elf tried to struggle free. He was determined not to surrender to the barbarian this time. Had Kintaro asked, Ithildin would have shouted “No.” But the barbarian opted for rape again. Fine. Let him handle an elf who is not wounded, beaten or half-dead! Even if the elf has to struggle with his own urges at the same time.

Ithildin roughly broke Kintaro’s grasp, the chief threw him on the pelts and fell on top, but the elf used all his strength and wriggled out. Teeth clenched, they silently fought on the tent floor rolling all over each other. They were pretty evenly matched: the elf more agile, the nomad heavier. Ithildin did not have the full advantage because the tent was too small, and, besides, Kintaro was holding his wrists, so Ithildin could neither hit him nor push him away.

At last, Kintaro threw Ithildin face down, twisted his arm behind his back, and dropped with all his weight on top of the elf. Breathing heavily, Ithildin writhed under him – oh, great gods, it would have been easier to get out from under a huge fallen oak, then get free of this barbarian and his chest of stone.

Kintaro breathed in his ear and purred, “Wanna ask me something?”

“Fuck you,” spat out Ithildin and tried to get out again. He just couldn’t think of anything better to say. Especially since something else of the barbarian’s was made out of stone and now rubbed against Ithildin’s behind.

The nomad had started to move his hips lazily and kept on sighing into Ithildin’s ear. As if they were making love instead of fighting, and what if that animal starts to kiss him!

Ithildin remembered the traditional Essanti fight that he had witnessed often, and felt hot all over. The nomads would meet in a challenge, bare-fisted, unarmed and naked, and the winner would get to have the looser right on the “battlefield,” in the trampled grass.

“You are both mad, you know,” said Lielle’s voice from somewhere on the left.

“The silly elf thinks he can resist me,” Kintaro chuckled. “Bet he has one hell of a hard-on already.”

Ithildin was failing to cover his arousal and confusion. He hissed venomously, “Just try doing something in that position. Or what, you’ll just lie on top of me and drool?”

Alva whistled and Kintaro howled.

“The redhead has corrupted you good and proper, little elf,” he finally managed, “so just say it. You are dying to be had. Go on, don’t be shy.”

The Essanti pulled the elf up to kneel. Ithildin thought he would break free as soon as the chief’s hold on him loosened, but did not get to it fast enough. Kintaro gripped Ithildin across the chest with one arm, and reached for the elf’s crotch. The chief’s hand burned, as if raking across raw nerves. Ithildin inhaled with a hiss and stiffened in Kintaro’s unwelcome embrace. But after a few seconds of tantalizingly slow fondling, Ithildin sported a splendid hard-on.

“Missed me, elf?”

Kintaro caressed Ithildin’s chest with the tips of his fingers, and then mercilessly attacked his neck. The barbarian sucked hard on the delicate skin, making the elf whimper and throw back his head. Ithildin let his arms drop, and his entire body relaxed, with the exception of the bit grown painfully hard under Kintaro’s hand. Pleasure was pain. Kintaro caused it, and only he could soothe it.

“Hate you,” breathed Ithildin.

“Ask me if I care. Just keep your legs spread.”

“Bastard,” mumbled the elf, and went on moaning as he felt the unrelenting, strong yet masterful fingers move inside him.

“Bitch,” whispered Kintaro tenderly, and drew the elf to him by the hips.

Then, suddenly, Lielle was between Ithildin’s legs, kissing him. When Ithildin felt the tumbling silk of Alva’s loose hair, his mind swam. The Essanti took him as he stood, kneeling, and that blossom of Creedan nobility proceeded to suck artfully on the elf’s manhood.

Nothing was left in the world except shameless enjoyment, hands, lips, hair, hips, legs, skin, smooth and slick with sweat … and no way out of the sweet blackout. Not when one of your lovers be a refined and sensuous aristocrat, and the other – a wild and insatiable savage.

But Ithildin never gave in to Kintaro without a fight. Whenever the chief peremptorily tossed him on the pelts, as had become his habit, overpowered him, kissed him, and grabbed his crotch, the elf struggled. In truth, he never managed to last past half an hour. As soon as Kintaro grabbed him and began to fondle and nibble at the most sensitive spots, the elf became powerless … especially if Lielle slyly joined in. Together, they instantly turned Ithildin into a lascivious creature moaning and writhing atop the pelts.

Resistance was futile – but the elf still tried. It was more of a sop to his pride, since nothing else was left. The barbarian irked him with every gesture, every word and every memory he brought back to the elf. He hated Kintaro for the power he exerted, for the strange bonds forged by their past and their future; bonds the elf could not sever, but still tried to resist.

But he never said “no.” He liked fighting Kintaro. Now the elf enjoyed the privilege of telling Kintaro to go to hell, breaking out of his cloying embrace, kicking, scratching, bruising and lacerating. Seeing the marks afterwards, Ithildin felt curiously satisfied. It was payback for his previous helpless compliance. These days, Kintaro could not get him scot-free, and the barbarian never tired of the game. Neither did the elf.

And Lielle never tired of watching. Ithildin was constantly aware of his lover avidly watching their squabbles from a distance and waiting for a chance to join in. Afterwards, the two, having let off some steam, would pounce on Alva, join their efforts, and drive Alva wild with their caresses. The elf never ceased wondering at how sweet, sensual and ardent his Lielle was.

And if his lover preferred the composed and proper Ithildin of old, he of the quiet voice and impeccable manners, he certainly never let it show.

**6.**

“Have anyone here who’d take a letter to Selkhir?”

Kintaro rolled on his back to see Alva.

“Want to send a note to that sheared girlfriend of yours? Sure, I can find someone.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Ithildin piped up.

“Maybe this comes as a surprise, but the Enqins know that our little redhead here is alive and well. And so does your would-be suitor.”

“That’s not what he is talking about, moron,” interjected Alva. “What if the Enqins get your messenger? Bet they are watching everyone riding to Selkhir.”

“Nah, don’t fuss, I won’t be sending a dumb-ass ... a real fighter, natch. A few Enqins are nothing to worry about.”

“Fine, made your point. Can he get to it, then? Leitis Lysander will pay him well, and I too.”

“So mercenary, you northerners. Forget it, my sweet, your money is shit in the steppe.”

“Right, you’d rather have the pound of flesh. Or pounds.”

“See, over here – becoming a messenger is an honor, and a reward. For the ones who have earned some rest and fun, get my drift?”

“Got it. Leave of absence, steppe-style.”

“Yep, that’s right. So who does your lady-colonel go for?”

“The Essanti are out of luck with her. She is into sweet blonds, doubt your tribe stocks those.”

“Why not?” grinned Kintaro and rose.

He returned a quarter of an hour later in the company of a young warrior, at whose sight Alva was rendered speechless.

When Alva could speak again, he sputtered, “And they say elves do not mate with humans ...”

“Lielle, he does not look like an elf at all, as evidenced by his stature and bone structure,” Ithildin was being pedantic, as usual. “Besides, his coloring would be atypical ...”

Without listening to any of this, Alva circled the warrior and shamelessly stared. The young man smiled, and took a more relaxed stance, but said nothing. Alva looked back at Kintaro.

"You trying to say this one is an Essanti too?"

"His name in Renhiro. He was born here, he knows the Essanti oman. He is a true warrior. One of the tribe."

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, noble Alva Ahayrre,” said Renhiro in the Common tongue, and lowered his head slightly, hiding a smile.

Alva did not even bother pretending coyness. He smiled pleasantly at the warrior and kept on ogling.

Renhiro was about as tall as Kintaro, but fine-boned and young. He could not have been older than twenty, and, more probably, only eighteen. He was dressed as a nomad, in leather pants and moccasins, and wore the usual black agate earrings and necklace. But otherwise, his only resemblance to the Essanti was his lithe muscled body that could have been chiseled by the best of metropolitan sculptors.

His skin was not bronze; it was light, probably milky-white by nature, and turned to darker cream by the luster of a golden tan. The high cheekbones and almond eyes of the nomads were absent as well. His lips were full and delicate, like a girl’s; beneath the thick eyelashes, mingled the greens and blues of the distant seas; his face was perfect. If mother nature had gone just a bit further, he would have been nothing more than eye-candy. But his expression and his stance were those of a warrior confident in his strength. One who would face ten enemies without flinching.

A mane of blond wavy hair down to his waist was the finishing touch. The sun had bleached them to a platinum color. A romantic dream. In the capital, all the painters would have fought each other to have him for a model. The ruler of Arislan would not have scrimped on gold and jewels to have him as a bodyguard.

To think about it, his appearance was not that surprising. He could have been captured as a child with his mother. Or he could have been sired by a guest. If Alva had agreed to have a woman during his first visit, there could have been a red-haired baby already.

“You know the Selkhir commander by sight?” asked Kintaro.

“I have seen Lady-colonel during the campaign.”

“You’ll deliver Chevalier Ahayrre’s letter to her personally, and inform her that you are at her disposal. If she does not task you with anything, you can hang around Selkhir or come back here, up to you. All right?”

“It is a great honor to meet Hazarath, famed in battle.”

“If she lets you go before the month is out, that nickname is wasted on her,” exclaimed Kintaro. He put his arm around the young man’s shoulders and laughed heartily.

Renhiro smiled back, and Alva concluded that they must have been lovers in the past – there was so much affection in that gaze. Not surprising at all, Kintaro could have easily fucked his way through the entire tribe, with his temperament. Probably harder to find some here he had not slept with.

Alva, ever-curious, asked Kintaro about it after the young warrior left. The chief answered absently, “Used to, at one time. But Ren is more like a brother to me. We hooked up first in the ayuri, the kids’ training camp, I helped him fight off the older boys. He used to be pretty-pretty.”

“Not too bad these days either,” said Alva.

Kintaro sniggered, then asked, “Think your girlfriend will like him?”

“You serious? What is he, a gift? On the orders to get into Leitis’s bed?”

“Don’t get riled, my sweet. Nobody is ordering anyone. She is a great warrior, never mind that she is a woman, and she is known all over the Wild Steppe. Bedding her is a real honor. The Eutangha are sending her pretty boys for sure. It’s their custom, offering love to the allies.”

Alva cocked an eyebrow. Leitis had never told him about this. Probably sent those “gifts” back, unwrapped. She did not like them dark. There might have been some chestnut-haired Eutangha, but Lei was not fond of the steppe type generally. Until Alva had met Kintaro, he sort of saw her point.

**7.**

A week passed in a daze. The three of them only ate, slept and made love, sometimes not getting vertical for days on end.

Eventually, Alva pouted moodily and said, “I am tired of spending my days in idleness and lust.”

“We could go hunting,” said Kintaro. He was taking a piss – he knew the answer in advance.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Alva shuddered. “No hunting. I want to come back to the civilization and its trappings – hot water, soft bed, and cosmetics. And we are almost out of orange-scented oil.”

“So where would you go? You can’t go back to Creede. I might be late rescuing you the next time.”

“Creede is not all there is. I have some friends in Arislan, enough to get along for a bit.”

“Nothing wrong with Arislan,” agreed Kintaro. “Always wanted to visit it.”

Ithildin saw surprise fill Lielle’s eyes. The elf, on the other hand, didn’t feel surprised, only resigned. He knew that they could expect absolutely anything from the barbarian, and realized that his “my prize will be the two of you” had a deeper meaning. Kintaro was not ready to give up his lovely flaming trophy just yet. Perhaps he was not ready to give it up ever.

“What?” asked Lielle, brows knitted. “What have you got to do with it? You are not going to escort us all the way to Arislan, are you?”

“I am coming with you, that’s all.”

“Umm … Kintaro, we don’t need an escort. That would be excessive.” Alva continued to look puzzled.

“Here is where you are wrong. The Enqins are vindictive, and Targhai will never forget the injury. He is certain to have sent out men looking for you. He is still loaded, even after the tribute he had paid your king. His ancestors had buried so much gold in the steppe – enough to build the Selkhir gate tower. Life-sized.”

“Listen, Kintaro, I can take care of myself. We can,” Lielle corrected himself looking at Ithildin.

Kintaro took Alva by the chin. The gesture was surprisingly tender, shorn of his usual aggression.

“I just want to come with you, my sweet,” he said looking in Alva’s eyes.

“Here you go again … it’s no use, Kintaro. I thought we had been through it already. That time in the palace.”

“And I thought you have had the time to change your mind.”

“I am grateful and all that, but … Better to end it all now.”

“Don’t you like it with me?”

“That’s not the point. Oh, hell! We have our way of life and you have yours, and that’s just fine. You are the Essanti chief, and we are the adventurers, the exiles.”

Ithildin was delighted at the “we” and the “our.” But he understood, with merciless clarity, that Kintaro had no intention of leaving them alone. That he was determined to follow them anywhere they went.

Kintaro could have asked for much more, Ithildin reminded himself. It’s not that the elf was thrilled to keep on sharing his bed and his lover with the barbarian. But, compared to what Kintaro had threatened during their exchange in Trianess, everything else was small change.

“Essanti chief, my ass,” snorted Kintaro. “Me today, someone else tomorrow. They won’t even bother with trials, Akira will win them anyway if I’m not there. I have not planned to spend my whole life in the steppes. I’d have to move on sometime.”

“No. Not with me."

“I don’t insist on getting an answer right away. Think about it.”

“What’s there to think about … Ohh … Ahh …”

Kintaro kissed him on the lips, then trailed kisses from Alva’s neck to his shoulder.

“Go on and say it,” he purred, sticking out his tongue and deliciously licking around Chevalier Ahayre’s nipple, “say that you are ready to leave me for good and never see me again.”

“But, but … I never said … I never wanted to leave right away,” Lielle breathed and arched back. “That’s … dirty playing … Oh, god!”

“Come help me, doll-face.”

Ithildin complied and in the next few hours Lielle was not fit to object.

**8.**

Another week passed. Kintaro kept going back to the touchy subject relentlessly. Alva joked, kept quiet, stoppered Kintaro’s mouth with a kiss, and used every ruse to avoid giving a straight answer. Ithildin stayed out of it, preferring to watch from the sidelines. What else was there? They had to sort it out by themselves. He would just accept the outcome.

After Kintaro had exhausted his eloquence (which had never been his strong suit anyway), he decided to try another approach. He looked to the elf.

“I want to talk to you.”

“What do we have to talk about?”

They were barely whispering, not to wake sleeping Alva. Chevalier Ahayrre was sleeping a lot the last few days, probably because his captors had used to drug him heavily.

“Him, for example,” Kintaro pointed at Alva. “I’ll wait by the well.”

He stepped out, not waiting to be answered. Ithildin dithered for a bit, then pulled on his pants and reluctantly followed.

Ithildin did not like leaving the tent. It was a different campground (Essanti moved twice a year), but what did it matter. The same firepits, same tents, same well on the outskirts of the camp, enclosed by the same stones and lid against the dust. They were the same all over the steppe and kept the water cool and sweet, reminding Ithildin of the springs in Greyna Thialle. Many of these wells have been dug hundreds of years ago, but still had not run dry.

Everything about the camp was the same as well. The Essanti warriors sat and lay on animal skins around the fires, grilled meat, sharpened swords, mended harness, laughed, horsed around, combed one another’s hair, had sex in their tents with open flaps. Only one thing differed from last year’s camp. Nobody was chained at the white post.

This post called out to the elf. As if bewitched, he had to stop by it while he skirted the camp trying to avoid the barbarians. He touched the rough surface. The chain and collar were gone, and so was the mat splattered by the excesses of the warriors’ pastime. The paint had peeled, the iron ring that used to hold the chain had rusted.

Ithildin could not tell if it was the same post or a different one. He never examined it closely, nor the ring and chain, once he had checked their strength and made sure there was no escaping them. And then – one glance of the red-haired stranger, a few words from his lips, his passion-filled touch – and the locks opened, the chains were severed, the iron collar taken off, and now he walked free even among these savages, and none could touch him against his will. Not even Kintaro.

Someone called after him in the guttural accents of the steppes. Ithildin faced a young Essanti warrior who ogled him, smiling lewdly. He repeated something close to “wanna get it on” and tried to grab the elf. Ithildin backed away, morose, and turned to leave. That’s when a hot hand grabbed his behind.

The next moment, Ithildin punched the man in the face. The barbarian dodged, so the elf’s fist only grazed his jaw. The Essanti’s smile widened, eyes glistened hungrily at the challenge, and he leapt at the elf, tripped him, and both rolled on the ground.

Ithildin was not very skilled in a hand-to-hand, but his strength and agility were a match for the Essanti’s. His adversary, though, was not interested in combat; he had something else in mind. Every chance he got, he fondled the elf or even tried to kiss him. Ignoring these touches, Ithildin twisted the man’s hand and hurled him off. There were cheers from the crowd that had instantly gathered round. The fallen fighter did not get up. Instead, he lolled on the ground and spread his knees – salacious as ever.

Kintaro’s voice sounded in his ear, making Ithildin jerk.

“Want him, doll-face? He’ll let you take him.”

“No,” said heavily-breathing Ithildin and made himself turn away from the adversary.

“Let’s get you washed up, or you’ll terrify the redhead.”

It was only now that Ithildin felt a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

He followed the chief, eyes cast down. He was baffled: why did he get into that fight so readily, especially when the warrior was not even threatening him? And why would he, who used to be a slave and anyone’s plaything, feel so affronted by a come-on? Maybe this warrior has even had him before.

Of course the elf remembered everyone who had lain with him, but everything about them – their faces, smell, sexual preferences – was so alike, they were indistinguishable.

**9.**

When they reached the well, Kintaro moved off the round stone, pulled up a water gourd, and let the elf wash.

“So, why did you go and hit him?”

Ithildin did not answer.

“You are strong enough to take down pretty much any one of my men. Is that what you had wanted to know?”

The elf did not speak again pretending to be absorbed by the process of washing.

“You could have just asked me. I'd tell you. Or did you want to see if all the Essanti turn you on, or just me?”

“You presume to judge what you do not understand,” Ithildin answered coldly.

“I understand more than you think, doll-face. I know men.”

“I am not a man.”

“My ass. I know you are made exactly like any man. I've seen”. The chief gave Ithildin one of those stares that made the elf feel naked. “And that stuff you believe in is only elvish crap.”

“Only a crass barbarian could refer to time-hallowed traditions as “crap.”’ 

Ithildin felt himself getting angry. Lately, Kintaro was tripping him up non-stop, robbing him of self-assurance, and doing his best to attack the elf’s view of reality. He uttered strange things – wrong, as far as the elf’s understanding went – but somehow explaining the things Ithildin could not otherwise comprehend.

Kintaro came closer.

“Your traditions had stayed behind in the steppe. Where I knocked you off your horse and deflowered you. Still scared to think about it?” he asked when the elf shuddered. “But it’s a sweet memory for me. So sweet.” He held Ithildin’s face in his palms and kissed him on the lips.

“Why?” asked Ithildin without meaning to. He broke away from Kintaro. “Do you like inflicting pain? Humiliating?”

“I just wanted you. Who could say no? Not even noble Chevalier Ahayrre could.”

“What is it about me that makes people burn with lust?” the elf burst out.

Kintaro suddenly laughed, freely and joyfully. Ithildin looked at him, bewildered by his reaction. Finally the chief wiped the tears of mirth away, and said, “You are like a child. A child who knows nothing of lies and life. Get used to living among the people, doll-face. It was your choice. High time you dropped your god-damned traditions and took a pickle out of your ass.”

“Why do you think you can tell me what to do?” asked Ithildin, exasperated. “What gives you the right to judge?”

“Because I’ve been through it myself. I did not grow up in the steppes, I came here ten years ago. I gave up a life, a family and a homeland. Like you, elf. I had made my choice too.”

Ithildin was quiet for a long time, and the Essanti was quiet as well, as he stood leaning on the stone well and gazing beyond the horizon. The elf felt overwhelmed. It was strange to talk to Kintaro with no trace of hatred or insult. He was at peace, open and sincere, devoid of threat. Almost pleasant to be with.

Trying to banish the strange sensation, Ithildin said brusquely, “I do not care for your confessions. Do not play at being friends. We came here to talk about Alva Ahayrre, not you or me.”

“No, doll-face, our lives have meshed. Either we cut through the knots, or we keep on weaving.”

The elf had nothing to say to that.

“That’s what I wanted to talk about. Why does the redhead object? Did you ask him?”

“No.”

“But did he ask you?”

“No. He knows what I’d say.”

“What?”

“That I’ll do as he wishes.”

“So the problem is that he does not what he wants himself?”

“Perhaps.”

“And what do you want?”

“I am indifferent.”

“You said you hated me.”

“What’s the point of hating the hurricane? Or a wildfire?” Ithildin shrugged. “Besides, I knew I was handing myself over to you when I came for help. I gave my word.”

“I am not asking what you must do. I am asking what you want. What’s your stake in this, elf?”

Ithildin paused and reluctantly answered, “It’s easier for me to suffer you, than for Alva to give you up. You give him what I cannot. And if the Enqins track us, we’ll benefit from your combat skills.”

“Honest enough. So why does he keep turning me down?”

Fleetingly, Ithildin marveled at the change in the Essanti chief. He was no longer the sneering barbarian the elf was used to. It was as if he chose to stand before the elf defenseless.

Now Ithildin understood the true nature of Kintaro’s feelings for Lielle. It was love, without question. Ithildin could still think Kintaro an enemy, but he would trust him with Alva’s life without a doubt. The elf thought that, perhaps, Kintaro did not understand himself what made him hanker after Alva, and smiled lightly.

Kintaro looked at him suspiciously.

“Tell me, doll-face. You know the redhead better than I do. If he can’t make up his mind, you and I will do it for him. Tell me, so we can get a move on. Why?”

“Maybe because you are a savage, a murderer and a rapist,” Ithildin answered none too pleasantly.

Kintaro grinned.

“No, that’s not why. By the way, I had killed fewer elves, than you had killed the Essanti braves. And you are the only one I had raped in my entire life, whether you believe it or not.”

The elf sighed. Kintaro was twisting things around again. Ithildin would have preferred not to believe him, but the elf’s senses would not let him. He knew very well that the Essanti was telling the truth.

“He is afraid of the power you have over him,” said Ithildin finally.

“But he has power over me too." Kintaro forced himself to say it, and then turned away.

“So tell him. Tell him you love him.”

The Essanti was silent for a long time, and then stated, “I do not use words like that freely.”

“So it’s better to take and give nothing in return for you.”

“Not worse than always giving and taking nothing, like you.”

“You are just afraid to say you are in love. It’s a sign of weakness,” said the elf. He was relishing the revenge for the start of their conversation, when he had had to endure the barbarian’s condescension.

“Look who is talking,” Kintaro parried. “Look at the way you fight me off every time because you can’t bring yourself to say “yes” to the filthy barbarian. Wouldn’t be proper, right?”

The elf breathed in and out, slowly and glared at the Essanti, but found nothing to say. Fuming, he turned back and strode to the tent. Kintaro was insufferable. There was no logic in any conversation with him, and he could irk the elf profoundly with a single glance, word or sneer.

Why him? Why did it have to be him?

It would have been so much easier if their third became someone whom the elf respected and admired. Leitis Lysander, for example. Anyone, really, but this lascivious barbarian without a conscience, who arouses in others their basest instincts.

And yet, at the same time, Ithildin knew that it could not be anybody else.

**10.**

“I am coming with you.” As he said it, Kintaro was being frankly insolent.

Who would have thought the barbarian would get his way?

“Like hell you are!” shouted Alva. “You are fucking me right now, not for the rest of my life! We are leaving alone, and just try stopping us!”

“Admit it, Alva, you are scared of me,” teased the Essanti, smiling, but his eyes remained serious.

“I am not scared,” Alva insisted, but did look away.

“You know I would never harm you.”

“Nice story, if I can believe it. The likes of you just come and take what they want, not even bothering to ask.”

“I only do what you want me to do.”

“Yeah, and the likes of you think they know better what it is I want. And do not listen when I say ‘no.’”

Kintaro looked almost hurt, when he said, unusually gentle, “Alva, I would never force you to do anything.”

“Why don’t you just let me be then?!”

“Because it is destiny, Alva Ahayrre. There is nothing you can do about it. We are meant for one another.”

“You just don’t want to see your plaything go,” spat Alva through gritted teeth.

“I’ll tell you a story, my sweet. A legend.” Kintaro lay on his back and stared at the tent’s low ceiling. “I read it in an old novel, when I was in the monastery school. Once in three hundred years, an eclipse brings three people together, and weaves their lives into one. From then on, they are bound by inextricable ties, until death parts them. The three can be anybody at all, and they can feel any sort of thing for one another, but they are as a bow, an arrow and a string, and they become whole only when joined together. Like the night, the sun and the moon, that all come together in an eclipse. There is a word for it in the Ancient Tongue …” Kintaro snapped his fingers.

“Ekleipsis,” Ithildin supplied. “That’s not the Ancient Tongue, but one of human languages, a very old one.”

“Drivel, that,” Alva sneered. “It’s a myth, a legend. Besides, it’s a stretch anyway. You can say that an eclipse is made up of four things – sun, moon, day, night. Your stupid author decided to fit his story to the number three, because he thought it prettier that way.”

“I do not care if it’s true or not. The important thing is that I believe it,” said Kintaro. “I want to keep living with the two of you in the same tent, fuck the two of you and fight alongside you both if need be.”

“Is that a declaration of love, W-wild Steppe style?” Alva’s stuttering gave away his nervousness, which the elf had felt anyway.

“Take it any way you want. I had never asked anyone to stay with me before, but now I ask it of you, Alva. Make a choice. Now.”

Ithildin thought he could almost see two conflicting desires battle in his lover’s soul, and could tell he was desperate to put off making the choice.

“By the way, I am not the only one here who has a say,” Alva nodded at Ithildin.

“There are three of us here, my sweet, and I had already sorted things out with the elf. Tell him, Ithildin.”

It was strange to hear the barbarian speak his name. He had never said it before.

Ithildin said, “I would agree to any decision you make, Alva. But, as an elf, I feel your fears and prejudice obscure what your heart and your reason are telling you.”

“So what do your heart and reason tell you, Diné?” asked Alva and embraced the elf, looking into his eyes.

Kintaro half-rose, watching them carefully.

“Lielle, you know I want no one but you. But I can’t make you happy. And can’t keep you from harm on my own. But two might be better at it than one.”

“You are dull, elf,” Kintaro interjected. “Why not admit you like it when I fuck you.”

Those crude words of the barbarian sent a delicious shiver through him. Ithildin blushed and turned away, ashamed by how obvious it was. Certainly it would have been missed by neither Alva nor Kintaro.

“I am not going to deny that you … you make me react … a certain way,” he managed, head low.

“One thing I like about you, doll-face, is that you don’t know how to lie,” smirked the Essanti.

“Why do you keep calling him doll-face?” Alva suddenly wanted to know.

“Because. He looks exactly like a pretty white elf doll. My baby sister had one.”

“I did not know the Essanti kids played with anything besides shields and swords.”

“How would I know? I grew up in a normal family, with parents and siblings. Never held a longsword. Not until I turned fourteen.”

Alva raised an eyebrow. That was news. But Kintaro was not inclined to give more details.

“Want to know why I call you “my sweet”?” he asked, and moved closer.

“And why?”

“Because you are sweet.” The Essanti pulled Alva in, and licked Alva’s lips. “Hot, tight and sweet. I never enjoyed anyone as much …”

Kintaro pushed Alva into Ithildin’s embrace and went on kissing the redhead as he put his hands on the elf’s hips.

“... as I enjoy the two of you,” he finished suddenly.

Ithildin began kissing Lielle’s shoulder and tugging at his silken locks, while Kintaro’s sharp kisses criss-crossed Alva’s chest and abs.

“I thought we were discussing important matters here,” Alva feebly tried to resist and get away.

“To hell with important matters,” rasped Kintaro and pushed him back. “You can answer tomorrow.”

**11.**

Alva hissed and arched when Kintaro’s lips touched Alva’s inner thigh. He placed the chief’s hand on his member. Asked, quickly licking his lips, “Why do you always have to be on top? More fears and prejudice?”

“Had to do it once too often. Not much fun,” answered the chief without stopping or showing any embarrassment.

“What, the monks would not pass up a cute boy?”

“No, they were nice to me, it was me who ran off looking for adventure. Wanted to go back to my people, learn to fight, become a real warrior. Guess how a boy pays for the training.”

“What if I asked you? I never asked before. Don’t you want to taste me?”

Kintaro smiled and took him in his mouth without wasting any words. Evidently, the Essanti chief did other things well, besides kissing, because the way Lielle thrashed and moaned, Ithildin had to hold his hips down. Ithildin was so turned on and hard, he nearly started moaning himself.

Lielle came with a loud scream. Kintaro sat back on his heels, licked his lips, and informed the audience, “Sweet. Like I said. Why did I bother checking?”

With a contented whimper, Alva stretched, and suddenly asked, a naughty gleam in his eyes, “So what about the rest?”

“Why do you care, carrots? You like being pegged, don’t you?”

“I know someone else here who wouldn’t mind a go.”

Grinning, Kintaro looked Ithildin over. The elf blushed and looked away – now both men could see how turned on the elf was, and no one has even touched him yet!

“When I spread him, he’ll forget what he minds or doesn’t. Come here, doll-face. Let me show you how it’s done.” Kintaro made a move towards the elf.

Ithildin tensed, ready to resist, but Kintaro did not get a chance to grab him. Fast like a snake, Lielle slithered behind Kintaro’s back (both his lovers sometimes forgot how deft Lielle could be) and caught both his elbows. Kintaro tried to move his shoulders, but Alva held fast.

“Want to wrestle, my sweet?” mocked the Essanti.

“This is not a jest, Kintaro.” Alva was dead serious now. “We are neither servants nor slaves, to spread for you all the time.”

The chief frowned slightly and grumbled, “I don’t like being the bottom.”

“Perhaps you were unlucky in partners?”

Now Alva tenderly caressed the barbarian’s shoulder and let his breath tickle his neck. Nobody could resist the flute of Chevalier Ahayrre’s voice. Ithildin knew this first hand. The elf could not take his eyes off the Essanti’s face that showed now a play of conflicting desires. Hard muscles rolled under the tanned skin glistening with sweat – they would tense and then unclench, as the barbarian tried to harness his reflexes. Lielle was controlling him with only the sound of his voice and the tender touch of his strong hands. It was magic. Mesmerizing.

“You said we were both to be your prize,” Lielle kept whispering as he caressed the back of his lover’s neck and ran his hands over Kintaro’s hips. “You’ll get your prize in full … everything we can give you … don’t you want to try? Just once … submit … let somebody else take the reign … hand over the power …”

“Power is not for handing over, it’s for taking,” rasped Kintaro and lowered his head. His loose braids slithered over his chest. “Try and take me.”

He was almost beautiful at the moment, both tame and menacing – a turbulent river locked in ice, a bridled mustang, a snared beast. He drew the elf to him like a magnet. To touch him, to feel the tethered rage of the beaten storm beneath his fingers, to feel the power.

Ithildin moved closer, and the barbarian lifted his fence of eyelashes to stare at the elf. Not a trace of hesitation in that gaze, only a stark challenge. He smirked as if saying, “Go on, doll-face. Let’s see if you’ve got the balls.”

The barbarian ran his tongue over his half-opened lips in a brazen invitation to a kiss. It was as if he was teasing the elf, certain that the elf would never dare.

And, it was all worth it, if only to see surprise fill the black eyes when Ithildin attacked his mouth. Oddly, Kintaro’s lips were soft and obediently opened. As if he was caught off-guard, and, forgetting all his posturing, simply relished the kiss. Then Kintaro tensed, tried to take charge, move his arms, but it was too late. Alva toppled him, and Ithildin held him to the floor and went on kissing.

The elf felt Kintaro in every inch of his skin, and with that strong body underneath, memories bubbled up and mixed with reality – the memory of this strong body beating the elf into the steppe dust … the memory of pain, fear and loathing suddenly melded into desire. Ithildin was not deceived – at this moment, he wanted Kintaro so wildly, the desire was blinding him. So when the barbarian drew in a sharp breath and bucked underneath him, the elf whispered into the ear beneath the loosed braids, “Scream for me!”

Kintaro bit his lips but could not keep from gasping at Ithildin’s every movement, smooth and insufferably slow. The elf relished his power, and the pleasure it brought. In those moments before their mutual orgasm, he possessed the Essanti chief perhaps even more fully than the chief had once possessed his captive.

“Faster … oh, hell!” roared the barbarian, locking his knees around the elf, and let out a moan. His eyes closed. “Fuck you … Ith … il … din...”

He did scream, at last, and the elf caught the cry with his lips and drank it, like a heady wine, his pleasure joined with the barbarian’s.

“Now, elf, we are quits,” Kintaro whispered, catching his breath.

Ithildin thought he did not have to respond. He did not know what to say anyway.

“Anything left for me?” asked Lielle and stretched out his clever little hands. In wordless accord, Ithildin and Kintaro jumped on him and showered him with kisses.

That night, each came about twenty five times – or, at least, it felt like it, who’s counting. They splattered the tent pelts with sperm, spilled the left-over orange-scented oil, marked one another with pretty matching scratches, turned two oil lamps over and nearly set fire to the tent, and, finally, fell asleep utterly exhausted.

In the morning, Alva yawned, rubbed his eyes and asked, “Sooo, Kintaro … how come you are not asking what I decided?”

“Seems clear enough,” smirked the Essanti. “But I’ll ask you anyway, northerner. One word. Yes or no?”

Nobody could resist Kintaro. He was a storm unleashed, a doomsday coming. He did everything wrong, and still, nobody could deny him. He never even mentioned love to Alva, and Alva still said “yes.”

_The end of Chapter 4_


	5. Chapter 5

**1.**

“So beautiful,” said Ithildin reverently.

He lay in the grass, next to Lielle, arms behind his head, and stared at the moonless sky dappled with stars. The steppe had drunk in the summer sun, and now the earth was warm against his back. Blades of grass prickled lightly. A breeze cooled the skin pleasantly. The night had spread her black sequined velvet over them. In the dark, countless points of multi-colored light twinkled like fireflies, like sparks of magic fire blooming within a crystal.

It was like floating over a bottomless deep, dotted with the reflections of elfin lanterns. Ithildin could imagine himself back in Greyna Thialle, under the overhanging tree branches that blocked out the stars, looking into the depths of the Siallamain Ylar Lake, waiting for the celebrations to start.

He could. But why would he? There would be absolutely no point to it. Not for a moment could he forget where he actually was: in the Wild Steppe, under the dark boundless sky, on his way to the unknown. Lying next to his lover, exhausted by wanton caresses. From the distance, where the campfires burned, came the noise of the Essanti’s raised voices, laughter and shouts that mingled with the crackling of wood on the avid flames and the hiss of fat droplets on hot coals.

They were alone. Their insatiable Essanti stud went, after their lengthy roll in the grass, to bid his friends farewell. This had been a nightly ritual, ever since they had left Kintaro’s camp and traveled through the Essanti lands heading for the borders of the distant mysterious Arislan, a country no elf had gone to before. Or, if he had, never told his kin about it.

They were alone, but Kintaro’s invisible presence still hung around them. Unusually, they could not hear his voice, but his clothing and sword lay nearby; his agate earrings swung from Lielle’s ears (the Chevalier had tried them on and forgot to give them back); his scent still clung to skin. Ithildin no longer thought it gross, but arous … just rousing.

Since they had left Kintaro’s camp, the now ex-chieftain did not bother them much. As if he was giving Ithildin the time to get used to him before they would be spending all their time together. Before it would become just the three of them under one roof, in one bed, sharing more than just their feelings for the green-eyed red-haired Lielle.

These very feelings the barbarian stubbornly denied, even after having vaguely alluded to them himself. For example, once Alva pressed him about why Kintaro, whose tribe was one of the three largest in the Wild Steppe, suddenly fancied stepping down as chief and taking off in search of adventure. He was fishing for a compliment. But he had forgotten he was talking to an uncouth barbarian instead of a court sycophant.

“Wanted to split for a long time,” Kintaro said, nonchalant. “Learned everything there is about fighting, got to the top, fucked every guy worth fucking. What’s left? So made up my mind to go. See the world, try my luck. Maybe, use my sword to get myself a throne. Conn of the Thousand Battles did, after all. You’d be my queen, and the elf could be the Prime Minister.”

“So I’d be your bedwarmer, and the elf would be responsible for the affairs of state?” asked Alva sulkily.

“You both would be my bedwarmers. He’ll be the Prime Minister because of his premonitions and things.”

And Kintaro kissed Alva to shut him up. And he never even told him how gorgeous and desirable he was, as Alva, spoilt by his previous lovers, was angling to hear. Ithildin doubted Kintaro had ever said anything like that to Alva.

“They say that the new moon is an auspicious start to a journey,” said Lielle pensively. “Kintaro said that today we reached the end of the Essanti lands. Moonless nights make me antsy.”

Ithildin turned to hug him. Alva went on, cheek against the elf’s shoulder, “The sky seems so empty without the moon. My nurse used to tell me that’s how God looks at us with his night eye. No moon means the eye is closed.”

“I was born in a forest so dark, I had to climb a tree to see the moon. I could look at it for hours.”

The memories of Greyna Thialle still rippled in Ithildin’s mind, like the surface of the pond disturbed by a thrown stone.

“If you admit to being the God of Moonlight, or some such, I will not be surprised.” Lielle smiled, and the elf did too.

“A mother bore me, just as she did you, _aerve_.”

“Sometimes I doubt it. You are too beautiful for a creature of flesh and blood.”

The young man’s fleeting fingers traced Ithildin’s cheek. The elf caught them in his hand and brought them to his lips to kiss.

“Hardly a good thing in our situation, Lielle,” he said thoughtfully. “I am attracting undue attention.”

“I have thought about it,” came the flippant response. “Let’s just dress as women, that’s all.”

Ithildin was dumbstruck. Not noticing, Lielle went on, “I shall be a cousin to Chevalier Ahayrre, a high-born lady Aldys Alanis, you will be my dear friend, plunged into gloom on account of being recently widowed. Your name could be Tsi-Ling Tsi-Jang. Like those mountain people. Here is hoping that the ‘immortal’ works of Count Ysmena are not known in Arislan. Oh, I wish we did not have to know about them either … ”

Realizing that his elf had not responded at all, Chevalier Ahayrre rose on his elbow. “What’s wrong,” he asked. “Seen a ghost?”

“I cannot do it, Lielle!” breathed Ithildin, aghast. “It’s a sacrilege!”

Chevalier Ahayrre was frankly puzzled.

“Lies and dissembling are foreign to elves,” Ithildin hastened to explain. “We never change our appearance to obfuscate. But to pass one for a creature of a different race, and of different gender …” he stopped, shuddering.

Alva was lost for words. His careful plans were crumbling. It hurt Ithildin to see the reproach in Alva’s eyes. But there had to be another way! He could keep his face veiled or stay home at all times. Without him, nobody would recognize Chevalier Ahayrre – lots of handsome northerners in this world!

“I had no idea masquerading was taboo for you,” Lielle said finally, frowning. “You don’t even use make-up”?

“Of course not. It would debase what nature had given you. Pride would keep the Ancient Race from enhancing our appearance in any way.”

“But you wear rich cloth, jewelry, gold and silver.”

“That is to show our artistry, and the beauty of things that surround us.”

“Diné, when there was fighting in the Great Forest, at the time of Ashurran, elves wore green and painted their faces to hide in the thicket. Well-known fact.”

Now Ithildin was silent. He knew that he ought to object, make Alva see things differently, but could not find the right words.

“It’s hard for you to understand. I just know it. What you are talking about is different … they were warriors, and, anyway, maybe they were not using paint at all; after all, it’s impossible to keep your face and hands clean during fighting.”

“You are only prejudiced, my love. Precious little difference between dirt or dust and paint, if it helps to mask you.”

“War is one thing, and peace another.”

“And who says we are not at war? Kintaro let it slip that you had assassins after you as well in Trianess. And it’s not much harder to track us down in Arislan than in Creede. The northerners always draw attention to themselves in Arislan.”

“I can’t, Lielle! If I could only ask my ancestors, my elders …”

“Oh, so that’s what it is,” drawled the Chevalier. “You can’t decide on your own? After you broke so many of your people’s rules, and not asked anyone’s advice?”

Ithildin hid his face in his palms. Alva was right. He was already an outcast, covered in shame, what was one more transgression to him! Tears ran down his cheeks. Alva held him close.

“We’ll come back to this some other time, sweetheart. We’ll think of something. I won’t force you.”

**2.**

Shirvan the One-Eyed, the innkeeper of “Akhmani al-Riyadh” (“Blessed Garden” in Faris), was busy pouring wine when a huge barbarian came to loom by the bar.

“Yo, keeper, you speak normal speak?” barked the barbarian in the badly-accented Common Tongue.

Shirvan was very nearly insulted. This was the border Isfahan, teeming with merchants from all over the world. Every self-respecting innkeeper here spoke the Common Tongue. To lose a customer through ignorance, ridiculous! And if the slant-eyed barbarian thought he was such a novelty item, he had another thing coming. Isfahan merchants often hired the steppe-dwellers to guard their caravans, and some foreigners even had barbarian bodyguards. Ugh, the perverts! Bet this one’s master was one of those effete bum-wiggling Marrangha traders.

These thoughts fleeted through Shirvan’s head but were not reflected in his countenance. He smiled broadly and said, in the perfect Common Tongue, “Welcome to the trading town of Isfahan, my lord! What will your pleasure be?”

Now these barbarians were absolutely beside themselves with joy if you addressed them as “lord.” Bet nobody called him that when he was horsing around in his steppes.

The barbarian preened and said, “Me guards two Northern ladies. Noble. Dem wants de bestest room, de bestest mirror, de bestest wash-bucket, and de hottest water! And you go make sure, is a back-door there for dem to come in. ‘Cause …” here the barbarian dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “dem stupid girls got dirt all over them on de way, and start to bleat, waah-waah can’t come out and look like dat. No-no-no!”

The words “Northern” and “noble” worked their magic on the innkeeper. He dashed from behind the bar and, bowing non-stop, took the barbarian to the second floor that held the “bestest” rooms.

“Not bad,” nodded the barbarian carelessly and dropped a few Creedan silver coins into the innkeeper’s hand. “You says dem bring de wash-bucket. Send dem merchants with girly stuff and things. And roast us de fattest lamb and give us de fire-water!”

Both floors of the Blessed Garden now buzzed with activity, never mind the afternoon heat and the absence of customers. Servants, kitchen boys and errand-runners flitted hither and wither. The serving wenches brought pails of hot water to the rooms; the kitchen help worried over the saffron lamb; merchants unpacked their wares of choice fabrics and jewelry cases.

Shirvan, his one eye half-closed in rapture, relished the bustle. Not only did these Northern women take up the best room and pay for it generously, they also planned to stay for a few days and take in the sights. Who but Shirvan would point them in the direction of the best tea-rooms and shops! For a small fee from the owners, of course. Without a doubt, the news of the traveling foreign ladies would soon spread, and the locals would be all over themselves hoping to catch a glimpse of their shoulders, brazenly bared in the northern way, and maybe something even more interesting, if luck would have it …

In the midst of it all, two figures wrapped in cloaks head to toe, slipped into the inn through the back. The women were tall, like all Northern ladies, only a head or so shorter than their bodyguard. Shirvan did not think their travel clothes especially dirty, but then who could guess with these women. His own wives constantly carried on about having nothing to wear, even though they had trunks bursting with robes, shalwars and veils!

Ear to the door, Shirwan heard squeals, screams, laughter, and sounds of water splashing – so typical in the women’s quarters. “Ohh, adorable, real lapis lazuli!” he heard. Women are the same everywhere, he reflected wisely, and turned to more pressing tasks.

**3.**

Tongue stuck out in concentration, Alva drew a thin brush along his left eyelid, tracing a silver line, then repeated it with the right. He leaned back in the chair to study his handiwork in the mirror.

“Now I know why I played all these girl parts in the Academia!” he bragged. “Watch me paint myself into a woman anyone would bed! Me included!”

The Chevalier was already dolled out in a floor-length gown of azure silk, with satin insets, and made wide in the skirt to conceal certain bits of the anatomy. The dress color set off his red hair and green eyes beautifully, but the whole ensemble looked strange on a man, in Ithildin’s view.

“Oh, stop ogling, you are making my hand shake,” Alva pouted, doing his belle of the ball moue, and the elf looked away, embarrassed.

But Alva was not talking to him.

“Must you smirk?” Alva went on, to Kintaro sprawled on the bed. “You try putting on eyeliner when people keep staring at you.”

“You’ve got your back to me, sweetling.”

“Yes, and, in the mirror, I can see you strip me and fuck me. With your eyes, I mean.”

Kintaro howled in mirth, and nearly made Alva drop the brush.

“Who could possibly work under such pressure?” Alva pointed the accusatory brush at the barbarian. “Go take a walk, check out the surroundings. We’ll call you when we are done.”

“What, right now?” asked Kintaro casually. “I haven’t fucked since morning, by the way. Why don’t you blow me, before you’ve got lipstick on?”

“You ass!” Alva laughed and threw the first thing he got at Kintaro. The first thing he got happened to be a powder box, and Kintaro lazily took it out of the air an inch away from his head. Then he rose and stretched.

“White lady say, me do,” he said sadly, mouth quivering with suppressed laughter. “Nobody wants my sweet lovin’, so I go love de rack of lamb.”

“Stop it, Kintaro, oh, too funny, you’ll make me smear the eye paint,” Lielle laughed and laughed behind a handkerchief. “Where did you learn to rape the Common Tongue?”

“That’s how my warriors speak, they went to no monastery,” Kintaro grinned. “I have to play my part too. You won’t catch me holding forth like some Creedan troubadour.”

He left, and Lielle returned to the task at hand.

Ithildin sat by his feet, and asked cautiously, “So why don’t you wear something more … neutral. Like what they’d wear in Trianess?”

“Oh, now you are in for a lecture on modern Creedan dress. You must have noticed that, sartorially speaking, there is not much difference between the sexes in Creede. If someone’s got their back to you, and they have a longcoat on, you can’t really guess if it’s a man or a woman. Height or shoulder width might tip you off, I suppose. A little easier from the front, of course. I lost a bet like that once: the girl was flat and ungainly, rather, and I took her for a cute boy! Even hair length isn’t anything to go by. You’ve seen Leitis and other women officers. I have a feeling crew cuts will be the all the rage in the capital quite soon. But there is one privilege reserved exclusively for women, and that’s dresses. Exactly like this, old-fashioned, dating to the styles of King Tisannou’s days, and he had been the founder of this dynasty. Bring out the femininity, you know. Ladies save them for balls, parties, major holidays … Oh, it is too romantic – getting under all those skirts in a dark corner!” Here, Lielle closed his eyes, transported. “Our noblewomen think it their duty to dress this way when abroad. Especially in Arislan, where they are all bigots. One Trianess lady made a splash when she was received by the Khaleed – came with her bosoms quite bare. So it is incumbent upon me to present as a corrupt temptress of the North.” Alva winked at Ithildin and started on plucking his eyebrows.

“So why so much make-up, then?” The elf nodded at the proliferation of pots and paints on the dressing-table. “I’ve seen Creedan courtiers with make-up on, but it did not make them effeminate.”

“Diné, that’s theatrical make-up, not decorative. Putting to good use the skills of my dissolute youth. To look like a woman, putting on a dress and smearing paint on your face is not enough. It is a fine art – touch up the eyes, change the eyebrows, lips, cheek-bones, jaw … When I am done, you won’t recognize me.”

Ithildin pressed his face against Alva’s knee and closed his eyes. It was lovely – to touch Lielle, to listen to his melodious voice that made Ithildin warm all over.

“See, me, I only wore women’s dresses on stage, but never off it. But my friend Ozra, you know him, he just loves cross-dressing. Adorable as a woman, too. And if he just used it on men – when it comes to sex, few would say no to him … not even the most uptight Arislani. Besides, precious little difference if you think about it. But Oz, the scoundrel, went after the ladies, can you imagine? So some lady-officer drags him into a hotel room, planning to have the pretty little piece every which way, and then finds out what the darling girl has got up her skirt!” Alva giggled. “But, anyway, women were quite forthcoming with him as well, if he is not lying about it. By the way, he and Weistle were very keen on you …” he added.

Ithildin was surprised. He had somehow missed this bit.

“I told them that it took them three months with me, but you would take them no less than three years.”

“I think you might be a tad off in your calculations, Lielle,” said the elf with utmost seriousness. “Ozra and Weistle are so charming, it would not have taken them more than two and a half …” he paused, but, finally could not suppress a snort, “ … centuries!”

Alva bit his lips and put on a mock frown.

“If you keep making me laugh, I’ll send you off to love that rack of lamb, while Kintaro gives you some of his loving! Why don’t you hand me that blue necklace over there. I think it came with some darling matching bracelets.”

Ithildin, like the most able of chambermaids, fastened a wide sparkling necklace on Alva and helped him put on the bracelets and the earrings.

“Turn around a moment.”

The fine elfin hearing caught the clink of bracelets, the rustle of brushed curls, the swish of silk, and the pop of opening perfume vials.

“Go ahead and look.”

Ithildin turned around and froze.

Before him, erect of carriage, stood a splendid lady. Curls of burnished gold framed a narrow face set with bright green eyes. These eyes mesmerized, drew into their transparent depth. She breathed a delicate intoxicating fragrance. Ithildin looked at the long neck wrapped in ropes of gems, and burned to press his lips on it. And he proceeded to do exactly that, lifting the red-gold curls. The lady sighed deeply and threw back her head.

“Like it, I see,” she purred.

Close up, very close, Ithildin saw her silvered lips and a pink earlobe hung with a long earring. Smooth fabric slithered underneath his hands, and then there was the hot body underneath ... the enveloping perfume rose from the cleavage and made his head swim … The thick eyelashes weighed down by dark paint, the green and silver sparkles over the eyes, the delicate blush over the cheeks … And those lips, moist and strawberry-sweet to a kiss …

“What are you doing … you’ll smear it … lipstick … Diné...”

The little pots smashed to the floor. Something broke. Wispy silk slid beneath his fingers.

“Let me go … not here … Oh, Diné, not so hard, you’ll bruise me … Diné … Ohhh, harder …”

Within seconds, the freshly-minted Lady Aldis Alanys was perched on the frail dressing-table, back against the mirror, skirt raised up to her chest, legs in transparent stockings wrapped around her partner’s hips and moaned, hand against her mouth, in time to his thrusts. But she had sufficiently kept her wits to think about wipes to save the dress from staining, pretty much as soon as they were done. Well, almost. Within ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.

“Dear God, Diné, I had no idea it would turn you on so much!” breathed Alva and let out a tiny delighted laugh, utterly content in his elf’s embrace. Ithildin blushed and hid his face on Alva’s shoulder. He could hardly understand what came over him, what brought on this wash of overpowering desire that enthralled him the moment he looked into Lielle’s dancing made-up eyes.

“You look so much like a woman, I’d ask for your hand in marriage without hesitation. Well, looked like a woman,” Ithildin corrected himself. It would have been hard to take Alva for a woman now, as he lolled disheveled in a dress pulled off his shoulder, make-up smeared, brazenly spreading his finely muscled long legs.

**4.**

“Oh, so that’s what you are up to without me, ye of little virtue!” Kintaro entered the room. “Did not even bother locking the door. Anybody could have come! Taken anything! Or anyone!”

Ithildin helped Alva get off the dressing-table and pull his clothes together. Kintaro, slightly stunned, took in his lover.

“Like … you played whores in your theater, or what?” he finally managed. “Looking like that, you’ll get picked up by the guards the moment you set foot in the street!”

“I, a noble lady, had nearly had my virtue despoiled, while my bodyguard gadded about goodness knows where!” said Alva and pouted as he wiped the paint off his face. “I would have been undone but for this noble elf saving me from rape. He got me to consent!”

Ithildin did not know where to hide under the barbarian’s disconcerting gaze.

“Look at that! Our ice-boy melted! Saw a skirt and whoosh! Wonders will never cease. Well, then I want a bit of fun with a pretty girl too!” declared Kintaro. “Go on, my sweet, get the doll-face all pimped up like that.”

“Get your pretty girls someplace else,” spat Ithildin, chin belligerently raised. “I’ll never wear a dress. Nothing will make me.”

Suddenly Kintaro, who had sidled up to him, grabbed him and held Ithildin’s hands behind his back.

“Come on, Alva, do it. I’m holding him. That red dress thing would look good on him.”

“No, Lielle, you promised,” cried out the elf. He struggled to shake off the barbarian’s claws.

With a predatory grin, Alva slid over and grasped the elf by the waist.

“I promised not to force you, and I won’t. But as God is my witness, Diné, if you refuse, I will too. Not another dress, no more make-up. Think about it, Diné, not another damn time. Just think about it.”

He kissed the elf on the lips, and the kiss, drawn-out and passionate, hardly helped cognition.

“You can’t … the Enqins will recognize you …”

“Yes, and you will never get to raise this long nice rustling skirt over my hips … or taste the strawberry lipstick … and no more Arislani perfumes, and none of these tarty shiny baubles round my neck …”

Ithildin closed his eyes and gave himself over.

“So we’ll take this off … Kintaro, hand me that black dress with silver trim. Diné will be a grief-stricken widow. The very thing to turn away the overly curious.”

“Black? He is pale enough as it is.”

“You’ll be giving me fashion tips now? My liaisons were with some of the best-dressed people in the capital! My second last lover would spend three hours in front of the mirror, daily! Don’t listen to him, Diné. On the contrary, everybody will think that the dress is making you look pale. Besides, you’ll carry a powder case around and take it out and make a big deal of powdering your nose. Or else we could use a veil. Yeah, one of those sheer organza ones ….”

“Why, Lielle, why?” moaned Ithildin helplessly. “We should not be attracting attention!”

“But we shall! But we won’t be attracting attention as if we were troubled exiles, but, rather, as two ladies of quality traveling in pursuit of distraction. So I will flirt outrageously with anyone we meet, purchase loads of frippery and be decked out like the bird of paradise.”

“Just don’t let anyone get under your skirt, or else all your clever disguise will be for nothing,” Kintaro interjected.

“I might let them fondle me up the leg a bit, and that should be plenty. I am not too fond of the Arislani type. Besides, they are so prejudiced about love among men. Yet another reason, by the way, why we ought to pose as women. Three men who live together and do not bring in women are obviously suspicious. All right, that fine specimen of noble Creedan womanhood, Lady Aldys Alanis, and her no less noble, but prematurely widowed companion Tsi-Ling Tsi-Jang, accompanied by their barbarian bodyguard by the name of … Hey, chief, what’s your name?”

“God, he must have fucked you silly, if you can’t remember my name!” grinned Kintaro. “Or you trying to act every bit a featherbrain maiden?”

“Cretin. I mean, what’s your name going to be. So we are not tracked down?”

“What else are you gonna come up with? Want me to dress like a slut next, too?”

Alva imagined Kintaro in a dress all too vividly, it seemed, because he fairly bawled with laughter.

Kintaro said carelessly, “I told my men not to spread the news that Akira was chief now. The Enqins probably think we are still humping away in my tent. And even if they go looking for us, think anyone here will remember my name? Just some barbarian with a sword, wouldn’t even be able to tell the tribe. Maybe Ahtaro, maybe Heitaro, or maybe even Targhai, hope he gets a dagger up the ribs and soon.”

Meanwhile, Alva’s nimble fingers flitted all over Ithildin’s face, applying eyeshadow, lipstick and khol. The elf bore it gallantly. Having Lielle so close calmed him, lulled him, and … His lover’s safety was worth every sacrifice! And what other sins could he fear committing, after he had left his people for a mortal man! For a man, who … oh, how lovely he was in woman’s form, embodying the dream of the perfect beloved from the elf’s distant youth. To see again that woman who hid herself inside his Lielle as a butterfly hid within a flower, the elf would have even cut his hair.

“Your hair, we’ll have to dye it,” said Lielle in concord with his thoughts, and the elf sighed heavily.

“And the ears,” chimed in the barbarian, “want a knife? To take a bit off the top?”

“Don’t be stupid, we’ll cover them up with a kerchief. Now, for the finishing touch … All right, open your eyes. Diné?”

Ithildin stood stock-still at the mirror gazing at the unfamiliar reflection clad in swirling silver-black. The reflection possessed the slightly frightened face of a very young girl with full pink lips and eyes darkly rimmed in kohl. Disbelieving, Ithildin stretched out his hand, touched the girl, and her fingers moved to meet his from the other side of the mirror.

Ithildin looked to Lielle, lost.

“That’s me?”

But Lielle did not get a chance to answer. With a curt “Holy fuck!” Kintaro grabbed the elf by the waist and tossed him on the bed.

“Damn it, can’t even one of you admire my artistry first,” Chevalier Ahayrre wailed, but none lent him an ear.

“Let me go, swine! Lecherous bastard. Careful, oh … you’ll tear it …” the elf’s protestations gave way to incoherent moaning.

In a little bit, Kintaro, breathing heavily, rolled on his back next to Ithildin. The elf, too embarrassed to look up, was straightening his clothes.

Alva piped up snippily, “Looks like skirts do it for you too, huh, chief?”

“He’s always looked like a girl. But now, don’t know how, you made him look like a human being.” The chief lifted his hips off the bed to close his pants and added, “Personally, I like Arislan. Plenty.”

**5.**

In the morning, the two foreign ladies and their bodyguard graced with their presence the main hall of the “Blessed Garden.” They drew every glance and caused every mouth to gape. Shirvan himself remembered the opened tap only when the wine had started spilling all over the floor. It really was quite a sight. Even the motley overcrowded Isfahan rarely saw the likes of these three.

The older of the two women, the redhead, looked like a queen in exile. Her beauty was splendid, her attire was rich, but it was her truly regal self-assurance and the knowledge of her power over others that ensured tens of hands would clash over a dropped handkerchief in the hopes of one kindly smile. Even in a crowd of wealthy merchants, she looked like a bird of paradise that had errantly flown into a hovel. A blossom as exotic and delicate as this, was meant to bloom in the height of luxury, recline on precious carpets and eat off golden plates. Shirvan the One-Eyed had heard it said, of course, that in the North, beyond the Wild Steppe, every beautiful woman thought herself a queen, but this was his first encounter with the living proof.

Although, once he got over the first shock, Shirvan came to find the red-haired lady a little vulgar. A proper woman would never smile at men this way, and certainly never flaunt herself in this fashion. Shirvan liked the lady’s companion much better, even though the girl paled next to the splendid lady, like a lily before a rose. The other girl was flawless: she had beautiful almond-shaped eyes, rimmed in kohl, lily-white skin, and a willowy figure barely perceptible underneath the black folds of her robe, and so even more likely to inflame the imagination. Her modestly lowered eyelashes, soft voice, and the habit of veiling half her face in the Arislani fashion utterly seduced Shirvan. The lady’s virtue was apparent.

The servants had already informed him that the pale girl was in mourning for her husband, untimely deceased. Shirvan contemplated her dainty fingers, her delicate swan’s neck with its single strand of pearls, and mused. Was there a way to make the lady of the veil consider a new husband and join one’s household as a third wife? For example, as his, Shirvan’s third wife? Not even, because for this lily of the North, he would have sent his other two wives back to their parents!

The fantasies were delightful, but remained nothing but fantasies. It was quite evident that the ladies were very affectionate with one another, and would not be inclined to be parted. In Shirvan’s experience, women like that could be married only together. In fact, that’s exactly how he had come by his own two wives, and that was a lot more bothersome than one wife and a few concubines would have been.

The ladies were accompanied by the broad-shouldered barbarian with a longsword at his back. Shirvan had met him already. The steppe-dweller’s clothing consisted only of tight leather pants; presumably, to display his fine muscles, battle scars and a couple of daggers in his belt. Shirvan could have bet that a throwing knife or two was hiding in the barbarian’s boots, and his braids easily held ten poisoned darts.

Shirvan was not surprised that the ladies were traveling with only one bodyguard. The inn-keeper had seen the barbarians in action enough times to recognize fighting skill and cold-blooded competence under the guise of apathy. A warrior like that was worth ten ordinary men. Shirvan hoped the fellow would be able to handle most troubles that lay in store for two beautiful women in this city.

That still left the question, however, of what made a barbarian (bound to despise females) choose to serve them. After observing them for a while, Shirvan came to a conclusion that the redhead was carrying on with the bodyguard. A woman like that could make you forget all about the boys, no doubt.

After dinner, the two charming ladies attentively listened to Shirvan’s suggestions, thus becoming even more firmly entrenched in his affections, and left to explore the city.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the way, you might want to consider switching to Wattpad, it's an [illustrated edition](https://www.wattpad.com/371990493) there, with fanart by some very talented artists and my comments. I don't always remember to post those comments here as well.

Aforementioned Ozra Ottarcha and Weistle Wizayrre are Alva's close friends from the Royal Guard. They are characters in a story 'Close Friends and Lovers', not yet translated. After breaking up with his abusive boyfriend (which Leitis Lysander saved him from, literally - she had a duel with the boyfriend on Alva's behest) Alva wasn't much interested in men for some years, and only Ozra and Weistle's gentle persuasion, a lot of wine and a night of lovemaking with both of them cured Alva and made him totally bisexual again XDD

**6.**

The great market-place in Isfahan was reminiscent of Selkhir – it was just as noisy, bright and babbling. Alva was in his element here: his eyes gleamed, his hands, of their own volition, reached for the embroidered veils, fans and silver jewelry Arislan was particularly famed for. Oh, that was the civilization he had dreamt of in the Essanti tents, all right.

Ithildin was doubly pleased at the sight of Alva’s pleasure and of Kintaro’s discomfiture. The barbarian clearly resented being dragged through tea-shops, stores, and two-bit playhouses. Although, the arms-seller’s improved his mood somewhat, with its extensive arsenal of murder weapons and its young owner’s charming smile. The smile that could slash straight at the heart as readily as any of the swords he sold. The pretty blond youth volubly explained that he came from Marrangha, washed up at Isfahan for the past three years, and really missed the ways of his homeland. His flirting with Kintaro was so brazen, it left no doubt as to what ways of his homeland he missed. Kintaro narrowed his eyes at the youth like a panther stalking its prey.

“I have some most amazing items, that would, no doubt, be to your liking, if you cared to follow me,” trilled the youth.

Alva, who, until now, watched, highly amused, instantly frowned.

“And you, dear ladies, would do well to take a look at my friend’s wares, the next shop over. He is the best jeweler in all of Isfahan. The time you spend there will seem but a moment to you.”

Kintaro responded to Alva’s glare with a wicked grin and followed the youth past the heavy brocade of the curtain.

“Whore,” spat out the infuriated Chevalier, but who he was referring to remained unclear.

Ithildin shrugged, as in “What else did you expect, dealing with a barbarian?” He was beginning to doubt that traveling with Kintaro had been such a good idea. The barbarian might be good in a fight, and ready to lie down and die for Lielle (Ithildin was especially certain about the ‘lie down’ part), but what good was he if he was so willing to follow every pretty face that smiled at him? The elf was starting to form a vague hope that Kintaro, once he had played at being lovers long enough, would just up and leave them one day. That would be wonderful. Lielle won’t mope for long, especially if Kintaro continues to neglect him so blatantly.

But now the young Chevalier was positively livid. He picked up his sumptuous skirts and bolted out of the shop practically hissing, he was so angry. One look at him, and it was clear that in the next few days, Kintaro would not be getting any – not even words, let alone sex.

“We should not go back to the inn now, on our own.” Ithildin whispered. “We don’t even have swords.”

A sword-carrying woman in a dress would have looked strange not only in Arislan, but even in Creede. Alva and Ithildin had nothing but small daggers fastened to the hip beneath their skirts. It was Kintaro who was supposed to be the walking armory.

Suddenly, the jeweler from the next shop was before them, praising his wares on a dreadful mix of Faris and the Common. Alva, busy sulking, gave him a cold shoulder, but warmed up when the jeweler brought out a silver trinket just for him. And when the jeweler poured cold fruity sharbat for them, the Chevalier relented and stepped into the shop.

The place made Ithildin uneasy. First, two other men, armed and strong, were hanging about the store. Possibly, they were guards, and that made sense in a jewelry shop, but it was hardly common to stare at women in this frank way in Arislan. Their stares made the elf uncomfortable. Alva, on the other hand, was at ease now – giggling, sipping sharbat, looking at the gems and chatting to the owner, asking the names of things in Faris non-stop.

Ithildin’s discomfiture would not go away. He even moved the dagger a little lower on its strap, so he could grab at it if needed. He turned out to be right.

Alva’s smile suddenly became tense, and he said, “Thank you for you hospitality, my dear man. It is time for us to leave, however. I had just remembered we still had one more pressing engagement, right, darling?” He turned to Ithildin. Alva’s expression was so eloquent, that the elf instantly estimated the distance to the door.

The owner barred their way, prattling on and making signs to the guards. The two men started to come closer, and Ithildin realized it was time to act.

He raised a dagger to the jeweler’s throat. “Out of my way!”

At moments like these, Ithildin willingly recalled the hatred his race bore mortals. The hatred that was passed on through generations even to those who had never met any men. He would have cut this scoundrel’s throat without thinking. But they were foreigners here, after all, and attracting the attention of the authorities might not have been the wisest thing to do. Enough to knock these thugs out and leave. By now, Ithildin had no doubt who the two men were.

“Seize them!” shouted the jeweler, as if confirming Ithildin’s conclusions.

The elf kicked at the fat jeweler and brought him to the ground (Alva’s guard friends had taught Ithildin a few things), while Alva threw a table at the feet of the oncoming thugs. But then, another thug loomed in the doorway.

Ithildin calculated. There was no sense in calling for Kintaro, he would not hear them. So they would have to handle it on their own, especially since it was apparent they were to be taken alive. He suppressed a grin. The bandits could not have known much about the Creedan ladies, if they thought to take them without any ado.

But the very next moment, everything changed. Alva staggered, leaned against the wall and the thugs grasped him immediately by the arms. Great Gods, how could he have failed to see! There had been something in that drink. Since Ithildin had never drunk sharbat before, he could not tell by the taste. Lucky that human concoctions did not affect him!

The thug at the door grinned and drew his sword. Ithildin was constrained by his long loose garments. That’s why it took him all of three seconds, instead of the normal one, to disarm the bandit, knock him out, and toss the body out of the way. Simultaneously, the two other guys crumbled to the floor, and Kintaro was picking up Alva in his arms.

“Go by the back door,” he barked, “that way’s clear.”

**7.**

Stepping over two more prone bodies, they returned to the arms’ dealer – the blond Marranian, who, judging by the stifled moans issuing from the cupboard in the storeroom, had been gagged and locked up. Strangely, Ithildin was not surprised by the turn of events at all. So he was right to have trusted Kintaro after all. The thought brought both annoyance and relief.

“They put something in my drink,” moaned Alva. He was feeling ill. “At least I did not have the whole glass. I heard these bastards talk about how much they were going to get for girls as pretty as these. God, I’m sick!”

“Be quiet, my sweet, or the shopkeeper will hear us.”

“You speak Faris?” Ithildin asked Alva.

“Why wouldn’t I, since I studied it for two years in the Academy. Don’t speak fluently, but I’ve read Shahnameh in the original. And you, Kintaro, how did you get there? I thought we wouldn’t see you till nightfall.”

Kintaro peeked out of the shop’s door, locked it, and came back.

“You thought I’d leave you alone and unarmed in a strange city?” he asked taking Alva by the chin and planting a kiss on his lips. “I expected you to think better of me.”

Alva blushed, and the smile he gave Kintaro was so warm and defenseless, it made Ithildin feel something akin to jealousy.

Right then, Kintaro grabbed him by the shoulders and said, almost laughing, “And you too, doll-face, you were awesome in action. Too bad it took you so long to catch on. See, me, I figure right away something was up. That shopkeeper boy was more fidgety than a sackful of ferrets. So I thought I’d see what was going on.”

“What did you do to him?” asked Alva, without seeming particularly interested.

“Nothing much. Socked him one and tied him up. Now we can question him.”

Kintaro came back with the youth slung over his shoulder, dumped him down and proffered Alva a bottle.

“Here, m’lady, have a drink. Make you feel better.”

Alva took the advice and slumped with relief. In the meantime, Kintaro took a handkerchief out of his captive’s mouth.

The youth immediately began to shout, “You bastards, what are you doing, I am an honest merchant, I’ll call the guards!”

Alva said icily, “Yeah, the guards will be thrilled to learn that an honest merchant sleeps with men and helps the slavers. So do everybody a favor, quit the virgin act, or my barbarian will shred you like cabbage.” The Chevalier was not inclined to be charitable, with all the stress, the nausea from the drug, and the fact that this guttersnipe had tried to take his man away.

The youth lowered his head and related, sniffily, that a local gang named Drum and Fife used the jeweler’s as a front. In reality, they dealt in theft, forgeries and wouldn’t say no to a bit of slave trading.

“They own all the guards. And they keep threatening to tell on me, that I sleep with men, or burn down my shop. So I have to do what they say. They told me to lure in your bodyguard today. I mean, I would have done it anyway,” he said guilelessly meeting Kintaro’s eyes, “or else they would have killed you, my lord.”

“Like they could,” snapped Alva. “Enough flirting with him, Kintaro, let’s get out of here.”

“Not so fast. You are forgetting I’ve got to thank our friend.” The barbarian, with a lewd smile, started to unbutton the youth’s shirt.

“Oh, hell,” said Alva and rolled his eyes.

When the youth realized the plan was not to kill him, but quite the contrary, he got inspired and proffered Kintaro his lips. Kintaro slung him over the shoulder again, and dragged him to the storeroom, whence shortly came predictable gasps and the creaking of bedsprings.

“Animal!” Alva winced and took another mouthful of wine. Then he looked at the elf and his train of thought sharply veered. “Oh, my love, I think your stocking has slipped. Let me fix it?” And, not waiting for an answer, dived beneath Ithildin’s skirts.

The jeweler obviously did not expect to see them back. He was just sitting there quietly, holding a wet rag to his black eye, but, at the sight of them, he leapt up, goggled and took a step back. Kintaro neatly lay the two thugs – who had barely recovered from their previous encounter with the Essanti – at the jeweler’s feet, punched him in the stomach and lifted him up by the scruff of his neck.

“These ladies are under my protection. Same goes for the arms-seller. I catch you looking their way, you’ll never walk again. ‘Cause I will have ripped out your legs.”

He was so convincing that the jeweler, reporting to the gang’s leader, strongly advised that the dangerous foreigners are best left alone. The leader had to agree eventually, especially after Kintaro had broken the arms of the assassin the gang had sent along. The leader sent a conciliatory gift to the inn, and even refrained from enclosing a couple of venomous snakes with the trinket. He confined himself to a small scorpion.

“See, now I totally get those who insist their women should be veiled at all times,” said Kintaro pleasantly as he watched Ithildin shake a scorpion out of the box, grab it gently across the back and let it out the window. The elf was impervious to insect and snake poison as well. “Maybe you should make yourselves look like two ugly old biddies, huh? Because what if that friend of yours we are planning to visit wants a piece of you as well?”

“Bakhriyar is a very upstanding scholarly man of letters,” said Alva primly. “The only piece of me he could possibly ask for is my hand in marriage.”

“Oh, that’s no biggie, long as he does not start asking for your other pieces,” Kintaro opened his pants, and demonstrated which piece he had in mind.

“Oh, wow!” Alva licked his lips. “Can I have some?”

**8.**

The next day, Lord Bakhriyar Tamani, in response to a letter he had received from Lady Aldis Alanis, arrived at the “Akhmani-al-Ryad” inn to escort in person the noble Creedan and her companions to his estate.

Lady Alanis had with her a letter from Chevalier Ahayrre (written in his lovely flowing calligraphy so well known to Bakhriyar Tamani). The Creedan poet and the Arislani philologist have been corresponding for a good three or four years, ever since Bakhriyar had elected to translate Alva’s poetry into Faris. He had always admired Alva’s work in particular and Creedan literature in general. Even though the two had never met in person, they were fond of each other. They had traded portraits at one point, and so Bakhriyar instantly saw the resemblance that Lady Alanis bore her cousin, Chevalier Ahayrre. Even her hair was the same gorgeous fall of red, only slightly longer than her cousin’s.

Also Bakhriyar couldn’t help but notice the exceptional beauty of Lady Alanis. To be precise, he formed an impression that he had never seen a more beautiful woman in his entire life. Although, this impression might have only been the consequence of the elation that the learned Arislani felt at receiving a letter from his idol and meeting someone related to him. And, in part, Bakhriyar’s worship of the Northern culture and Northern beauty, so rare in Arislan, must have played a role as well.

Bakhriyar rarely traveled out of his country; he was rather a homebody and was content to learn from books and travelers’ tales. That is exactly why he was so fond of having visitors over to his estate that lay a few hours away from Isfahan, in a picturesque green valley. The invitation was inevitably extended to any educated foreigner whose presence became known to Bakhriyar. Not that anybody ever declined, as Lord Tamani was deservedly known as a welcoming host and interesting companion.

After bending over the ladies’ hands in a ceremonious kiss, Bakhriyar said, “Such a pity that Chevalier Ahayrre had never mentioned having a cousin. We could have become acquainted long ago, my dear lady!”

Lady Alanis answered gaily, not put out in the least, “Our Creedan Bard is not keen to recall my existence to mind. He cannot stand that gossips consider me far more attractive and lucky in love than he is. Couldn’t possibly think why that is.” She smiled prettily, and Bakhriyar felt his heart melting like wax in the fire.

It was probably at this moment that he thought, for the first time, that he would be delighted to have Lady Alanis stay with him, rather than merely visit. Perhaps even stay for good.

The journey over had been short and sweet; the estate was large and comfortable. This was the first time Ithildin had come to a house that had an inner courtyard with a fountain, and found the architectural detail quite impressive. Beyond the large marble-white house lay orchards, vineyards, corn fields, connected by a complex irrigation network. The thicket along the riverbanks promised excellent hunting. The house held everything for work or play, including a huge library, a wine cellar, Arislani baths and Northern-style bathrooms, excellent cooks, spry servants, a theater and a small observatory.

Their host took entertaining seriously, and wanted to amuse them in new ways the entire time. One day, they would ride Bakhriyar’s thoroughbreds out to hunt, another time they would pass the evening with a glass of wine in scholarly conversation, next, they would go visiting all over the estate – in short, they got to sample all the pleasures Bakhriyar’s household had to offer.

Ithildin, acting the aggrieved widow with flair, loosened up in Bakhriyar’s company a bit, and now acted as only a somewhat sad widow. Lord Tamani was charming. He was a kind man, and generous, pleasant, cultivated, well-read. Once, the elf had spent three hours in his erudite company, absorbed in discussing the treatises of two learned men, a Creedan and an Arislani, on the art of war. All while Lady Alanis was strolling through the gardens with her bodyguard (or, perhaps, rolling in the hay with him). Ithildin explained his interest, so unusual in a woman, by claiming (and not batting an eyelid as he did so) that he came from the mountainous Haelghira, and belonged to a noble line of highlanders who praised warring skill above all else. Bakhriyar was beside himself with delight.

Ithildin would have been hard pressed to tell their host’s age, but Alva told him Bakhriyar was nearing forty. He looked like a typical Arislani: slim and taut, with a chiseled face, skin the color of creamy coffee, a faintly aquiline nose, winged eyebrows, sparkling dark eyes and curly black hair. And, he had a trim little beard. Ithildin, who had never seen beards before, found it quite amusing. Alva had explained that the Creedans and the nomads had no body hair except pubic. The northerners whose ancestors came from the South, might sprout facial hair or armpit growth, but it got mercilessly shaved off. In Arislan, on the other hand, it was traditional for men over thirty to wear a beard. The older a man was here, the longer his beard. They had some chest hair too, if Bakhriyar was at all representative. Not that he paraded naked in front of the ladies, of course, but sometimes the heat made him undo a button or two on his shirt. 

During his first week on the Tamani estate, Ithildin was constantly uneasy. He kept thinking they were sitting ducks here. He told Alva about it.

“What if the Enqin spies find out that you speak Faris and are friends with Bakhriyar Tamani? They will guess who his guests are right away!”

“Oh, come off it,” Lielle smiled. “Bakhriyar would drag in any visiting Northerner; the man is famous here for the love he bears the Creedan culture. Besides, who would possibly guess we had gone to Arislan, where love among men is made criminal?”

**9.**

Time passed, and the lassitude of their days started to get even to Ithildin. He had no disturbing visions, so they were safe for the moment. After months of fears and hardships, the relaxed atmosphere of the Tamani estate was enjoyable, and it was so nice to sit with a book by the fountain and chat about beauty and eternity to the accompaniment of birdsong. The only thing that bothered him, was what was happening between Alva and Bakhriyar.

It was only to be expected that their host would fall deeper and deeper in thrall of Lady Alanis with every passing day. Never in his life had he met a woman so at ease with herself, so witty, clever and unrestrained in word and deed. In villages, the Arislani women still hid their faces and did not leave the house unaccompanied. Even in the capital, the custom of wearing the veil still persisted; and it held not only for young women, but even for boys, as it was meant to shield beauty from the evil eye. Marriages were still quite often arranged, and many girls met their future husbands for the first time only at the wedding. It was not surprising that a woman as outstanding and independent as Lady Alanis had bewitched the Arislani.

Ithildin could judge neither Bakhriyar nor his own lover. It could not be even said that Alva was shamelessly flirting. Quite the contrary: he was being far more restrained than he would have been at any Trianess ball where Ithildin had seen him. And the Arislani’s bed hardly appealed to him all that much. Still, everything about Alva – his speech, his manner, everything – simply oozed temptation, and he was completely unable to reign in his sex-appeal. On the other hand, for an uptight Arislani many Creedan customs would seem the height of depravity. Bakhriyar was far more liberal than many of his compatriots, but he, too, was inclined to take even Alva’s most innocent gestures as attempts to seduce him.

The other difficulty was Alva’s complete lack of self-restraint when it came to sleeping with anyone he liked. And he obviously liked Bakhriyar very much, even Kintaro saw that. They had corresponded for so long, and now they had a great deal to say to one another. And it’s not as if Alva could talk poetry with anyone else, certainly not with Kintaro, or, even, Ithildin!

It was as if Alva became so easy in Lady Alanis’s skin, he had no problem with how much he was concealing from his friend: his own name, his sex, and his two lovers. 

The elf felt a little sad to see how much time those two spent together, and how Bakhryiar immersed himself more and more in this impossible infatuation. The elf pitied Bakhryiar and missed Lielle. They were alone only at night, and even then had to be wary, and could only steal a bit of pleasure and conversation. The moaning had to be restrained, the doors locked, stealth was the by-word, words were whispered, and any love was to be made with a view to preventing the bed from creaking.

Other things, much more mundane, were missing too. The elf realized, for example, that he missed his bow and arrows. He even worried some of the skill would be lost. For perfect aim, regular practice was imperative, and he had not taken up the bow since the memorable fight with the Enqins on the day of the eclipse.

Ithildin could not bring himself to leave behind his elven bow, that he had brought from Greyna Thialle, and took it along without the string, but had not risked even unwrapping it. Besides, if anyone saw the elf shoot, his inhuman speed and precision would have given him away.

Kintaro, Ithildin had noticed, in battle preferred to use his sword, throw knives or a short spear; still, the barbarian had taken his bow with him just in case. The bow of the steppe nomads was long and heavy, resembling the Creedan siege bows. The elf had nearly reached out for it when Kintaro was showing the bow to Bakhriyar. Ithildin was certain he’d be the only one, beside Kintaro, to be able to draw it. Neither Bakhriyar nor his Huntmaster managed to, even after much trying, and Alva did not try, his lady’s guise not permitting.

Turned out that Ithildin’s longing for the bow had not been lost on Kintaro. Early next morning, he showed up in Alva’s room, where the elf lay in his sleeping lover’s embrace (they had insisted on having adjoining rooms, and one of them had been almost ever empty).

Kintaro said quietly, “Get dressed, doll-face. I am going to the shooting range, and you are coming too.”

For some reason, the elf felt no desire to object.

Silently, they walked to the field where the practice targets stood. The quiet around them was broken up only by the birds chirping up in the leaves. Silently, they set up their targets and took turns with the bow, until they were tired out and the heat of the risen sun got too much. Then they hid in the shade beneath the trees, past the thicket.

“Had your fun? You elves … Would choose a bow and arrow over food any day,” said Kintaro lightly, and stretched out on the grass.

“And you, barbarians, would take fucking over food any day,” parried the elf. “I thought that’s why you had asked me to come out here.”

“Hey, I can do without sex for a day, no matter what you think.”

Suddenly, Ithildin was amused … and, somehow, felt at home. With a smile, he said, “Really? Even if I stripped right now? How long would you hold out?”

“Strip? You? On your own? Now you are just dicking with me.”

Elf took off a kerchief that covered his ears, loosened his braid and shook out his hair dyed platinum blond. He threw off his shoes and lifted the dress by the hem. He hesitated a moment and then pulled it off over his head.

The tight little pants designed to mask certain parts of his anatomy were ripped off by Kintaro. But then, Kintaro was not nearly as vehement as he usually was. They made love as thoughtfully and leisurely as they had practiced archery before. Kintaro’s kisses were almost tender. The surrounding atmosphere of calm self-indulgent laziness had affected everyone, even the savage barbarian.

Ithildin had already gotten used to picking up Kintaro’s mood. Lying next to him, shoulder to bulging shoulder, eyelids closed, Ithildin suddenly spoke.

“You wanted to talk to me.”

“Yep. Shoot some, fuck some, talk some.”

“About Alva?”

“Yep.”

“Go on, talk.”

“What’s there to talk about …” breathed Kintaro and fell silent for a long time. “I’ll be damned if I know what’s up.”

The elf shrugged and did not bother to answer. They lay in silence awhile. Kintaro ripped up a blade of grass and pensively chewed on it. Ithildin turned over on his stomach, chin on folded hands, and stared at a crawling bug. Great gods, here he was, lying next to the barbarian and feeling safe. Secure. Very odd.

“Why is the redhead trying to mess with the guy?” Kintaro broke the silence. “It won’t come to anything, I can tell.”

“What do you care? Jealous?”

“And if I am? What’s he got that I haven’t?”

Ithildin thought for a moment, and came back with, “It’s the flirting.”

“Who needs this shit,” muttered the barbarian. “I don’t get it. Want him – take him, what’s the big deal. This way Alva is just yanking the guy by his dick.”

“What, you like him?”

“And if I do?”

“Fat chance,” Ithildin wanted to say nastily. It was impossible to distract Bakhriyar from Lady Alanis even for a moment. But instead Ithildin said, “Don’t even think to hit on him. It’s forbidden here.”

“I know. But I am suffocating here. It’s like a cage.”

“You and me both,” muttered Ithildin without looking at Kintaro.

Kintaro went on, emboldened by the sympathy, “We are stuck here, like flies in honey. Me, I am so bored, I’d give up the ghost. I can’t bum around much longer. What, splash about in the fountain and stuff your face with peaches – is that it? Can’t even fuck to your heart’s content, always have to be hiding in the shadows. Why don’t you say something?”

“I am waiting till you are done.”

“Hell, it’s dead around here. Everybody is sleep-walking. This mire will get us too one day.”

“And you, what, want to spend your entire life fighting?” The elf arched an eyebrow.

“A good fight is like good sex or good booze, and this place’s got neither. All right, the redhead can play his cat and mouse games with Bakhriyar, but what about me?”

“There are women here after all.”

“Yeah, tell me to read a book, why don’t you,” retorted Kintaro. “What would I do with the stupid bitches? The Creedan women are all right, though, and loose enough, fun for a ride or two. But here … my ass.”

“You miss the kicks.”

“You said it, doll-face.”

“Go hunting.”

The nomad snorted. “Hunt birds and wild cats?”

“Incidentally, Alva is quite fond of peaceful life, unlike you. It was evident from the start that the three of us are too disparate.”

“I can see your next move already: good riddance to bad rubbish, it’s been nice knowing you. Getting rid of me is all you can think about.”

“That’s not what I am thinking about right now,” the elf blurted out.

He sat up, and Kintaro pointedly looked at the elf’s erection.

“Are you thinking about fucking?”

“I am thinking about fucking you,” said Ithildin evenly, then lay on Kintaro’s chest and moved his hips gently. “Here is your chance for some kicks.”

“One thing I’ll be kicking is your ass.”

The elf made a face. “Try. But it will come down to you wanting to fuck anyway.”

“You are mighty strange today, elf. Had a sunstroke?”

“And if I have? Sunstroke or no, let’s call it a truce for the day. You do me, I do you, we are even.”

This was exactly why the barbarian bothered the elf so much: his mere presence brought on the most outrageous desires, causing the elf’s head to team with unwelcome obscene images. Even now, the elf could not banish from his mind the sight of an arched back, sweaty and suntanned, and firm buttocks …

Perhaps it was Kintaro’s unusual gentleness that was responsible. The elf wanted to feel his power over the barbarian again. That’s not at all how it had been with Lielle. Lielle took the lead even in a passive position, and it was hard to say who was taking whom, when you got grabbed by the genitals and fairly sucked in. But Kintaro did not know how to hand himself over, and thus taking him became especially sweet. 

And still, until the very last moment, Ithildin did not expect Kintaro to roll over and spread his legs. Everything was exactly as he had imagined: the curve of the back, and the gyrating hips, the shoulder blades and the ribs, the blue-black plait hanging down and the sighs keeping time to the thrusts, and – at the very end – a quiet stream of filthy curses.

Before getting up to dress, Ithildin leaned to Kintaro’s ear.

“You can’t spur destiny; all you can do is follow its lead. You can’t know what tomorrow will bring, but you can be ready for it. When you’ve got nothing to do, do nothing. When it’s time to act, act. This is the quiet before the storm, you can be certain of that.”

“My life was quiet, and nothing happened for centuries until you came along,” was what the elf wanted to say, but he only touched his lips to Kintaro’s shoulder instead and put on his clothes.

**10.**

The next night, Alva and Bakhriyar got seriously drunk and the inevitable happened. Ithildin could have stopped Alva, as he, at least, was stone-cold sober, but chose not to. He even signed to Kintaro to keep out of it when Bakhriyar followed Alva to the inner courtyard. Those two had to sort it out the sooner the better.

But they did not get to the sorting out for quite a bit. Alone by the fountain in the night heavy with jasmine, Bakhriyar and Alva fell to kissing without knowing how. The caresses inebriated them more and more. The pillows spread around the fountain conveniently arranged themselves, while the hands traveled along the bodies of their own volition …

Ithildin and Kintaro heard a gasp of surprise, and then the two by the fountain raised their voices in an argument, becoming louder and louder. The elf and the barbarian looked at one another, snorted, and went down to see what the noise was about.

“Gone too far at last, have you, sweetling?” asked Kintaro snidely as he took in the scene.

Ithildin took one glance at the barbarian, and was amazed by the change in him. His old swagger was back, complete with the insolent lustful smirk and the predatory gleam of the eye. Yesterday was a dream. Did that ever happen really – the arched back, moving shoulder blades, hips, quiet subdued moans?

“I don’t understand,” whined Bakhriyar, clutching his head. He swayed a little, and kept pushing away Alva’s supporting hands.

“I’ll explain it all later,” cajoled Alva, but Bakhriyar just went on repeating, “I mean, why? What did you do that for? How could you? I trusted you … How could I know … You’ve deceived me!”

“Shit happens,” said Kintaro and lent Bakhriyar a shoulder to lean on, then led him, stumbling, to the house. “Let’s go and talk about it, man to man.”

Alva suddenly chortled, face against Ithildin’s shoulder.

“Man to man, oh my … If he only knew what it means in the Wild Steppe! Sorry, can’t control myself … I tell you, it’s like there was this fog inside my head …”

“I know that fog; red, semi-sweet, straight from the Arislani vineyards,” Ithildin supplied.

Alva giggled madly again, and tried to stopper his mouth.

“Ohhh, that’s too much … don’t tease. I need to lie down. Hell … I still have a hard-on.” He put the elf’s hand on his hard member so apparent beneath the wispy silk of the dress. “Someone ought to smack me … I had no idea he’d be that upset …”

“So you did let him get under your skirt, Lielle!” Ithildin grinned and kissed Alva on the mouth that tasted of wine and Bakhriyar.

Alva returned the kiss and clung to his neck, whimpering.

“Diné … want you…” he whispered between kisses. “Fuck me senseless … God, I’m a bitch … elf, my elf … my love.”

“Right here or in the bedroom?”

“Right here. Then in the bedroom.”

Ithildin tossed Lielle down and did what he asked.

Chevalier Ahayrre had one trait Ithildin has long picked up on – after sex, he sobered up quickly and irrevocably. When they entered the bedchamber of the “Lady Alanis” through the window, Alva could already keep his feet, look embarrassed and sigh heavily.

They heard a muffled conversation in the next room – Kintaro’s persuasive inflections and Bakhriyar’s sullen mumbling. An eavesdropping Alva looked like a kitten ashamed of his being naughty. Then the voices stopped for a bit. And what they heard next, made Alva open his eyes wide in surprise and look askance at Ithildin. “Do you hear what I hear?”

“And then some,” laughed the elf.

He picked out not only the predictable moans and the creaking of the bed, but also Bakhriyar’s passionate whispers. There was no doubt that the Arislani was a very willing participant. Kintaro was, as usual, at his level best, and tomorrow Bakhriyar would be as dreamy and languid as all the Trianess nobility, Essanti warriors, that Marrangha guttersnipe and, occasionally, even Alva himself had been.

“Animal!” managed Alva, shaken to the core. “This seriously takes the biscuit,” and he giggled nervously, unable to control himself.

But Ithildin knew what to do – he just stoppered his mouth with his own.

Oh, yes, personally, he liked Arislan. Plenty.

_THE END OF CHAPTER 5_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm taking some time off this project, probably till the end of September. But the novel is more than half-done, yay! Only four more chapters to go, although they are longer. I would greatly appreciate some 'come back soon's and any other comments xD_


	6. Chapter 6

**1.**

A door banged, and Alva was torn from his reverie. A gust of air ruffled the papers in front of him. The smell of ink mingled with the scent of those big white flowers that opened at dusk. 

Was it night time already? When inspiration hit, Alva always forgot about time. He was busily sweeping, when it came upon him. Manual labor is strangely conducive to creativity. Or creativity might have been flowing already when he knocked over that blasted flower pot. Whichever way, but Alva was under the influence. Poetic influence. He dropped the broom, dusted off his hands, and began to cast about looking for ink and paper, nearly dislodging yet another flower pot. 

Diné, summoned by Alva’s stream of curses, saved the pot of blooming azaleas from his desperate hold, carefully replaced it, and proffered Alva’s favorite leather-bound notebook. 

“Love you,” said Alva. Absently certified the sentiment with a kiss, flipped open the notebook, took a quill, and lost interest in the world. At moments like this, he became immune even to Kintaro’s overtures. 

Diné kissed Alva back, and tactfully left the poet in inspiration’s embrace. 

During their stay in Iskenderun, the elf discovered that he had an unexpected gift for cooking. Now he happily spent hours in the kitchen, surrounded by cookbooks and spice jars. Alva was all for it. On one hand, Ithildin had found something he enjoyed that did not require leaving the house (except maybe once in a while for a new batch of rare herbs). On the other, it allowed them to do without a cook. Fewer gossipy servants made it safer. Besides, Ithildin’s cooking was stupendous. Pity it was only Alva who could truly appreciate his talent, because Kintaro’s chief preoccupation at mealtimes was not the food, but whose thigh or knee to grope first.

**2.**

But, in the moment it had taken the door to shut, Alva could not have thought all this. He only noticed that dusk had fallen outside. Then, in the next room, something clanked; it had to be Kintaro hanging his sword and dagger up on the wall. The Essanti revered their weapons. Alva would not have been surprised if he caught Kintaro kissing the blade or something, but he would have been flabbergasted if he ever saw Kintaro carelessly toss his sword on the floor. Not that the barbarian took care about anything else. Even now, he seemed to have tossed his dirty boots right in the middle of the room, and it has not been that long since Alva had personally swept the floors there. 

_Dear God, Ahayrre, aren’t you becoming a housewife_ , he chuckled to himself. 

Meanwhile, Kintaro padded into the kitchen. Now he was going to shove one hand into whatever Ithildin was cooking, and use the other to grope the elf any way he could, while the elf fought him off with a ladle… 

The noise of dishes breaking, scuffling and Ithildin’s yelps came from the kitchen. Same old, same old. Except they have not broken dishes before. Those two were positively insufferable. They did not seem to tire of playing at rape every single time. Couple of mummers! Alva tried to concentrate on the last stanza, but a low moan distracted him completely. Chevalier crept up to the kitchen door and peeked in. 

If he had really been a maiden, the sight would have made his panties soaking wet. But he was no maiden (whatever the neighbors who saw him dolled-up up as a woman might have thought) so all he got was an erection. It was hard to say which of the actors looked more exciting. Especially since Chevalier Ahayrre had been in either’s place before. 

…Kintaro’s buttocks pumping wildly, flexing with every push that shakes the oak kitchen table; Ithildin’s leg thrown over the barbarian’s shoulder, his other leg wrapped around Kintaro’s waist, so white against the swarthy back and the flowing black braid. Entwined as closely as their position allows, they gasp and cry out together, and Ithildin writhes clutching the edge of the table, trying to meld into Kintaro. The barbarian’s jacket is on the floor, but his pants never got taken off and are hanging around his ankles. As for Ithildin, the savage never even bothered undressing him, just tossed him on the table in his robe, and the elf’s white shoulders and hips are bathed in shiny silk. 

Oh, dear God Almighty, but how delectable they look! Two bodies − two kinds of sugar, white and burnt − and Alva between the two of them like the licking flame that caramelizes the sweet… god is their baker, deft and light-fingered, who moulds together these three destinies so unlike one another. 

“White-delight,” “burn-yearn ...” Rhymes filled Alva’s head like glimmering fish, and were gone instantly, chased off by the delicate fingers that opened his pants and the tender mouth that was on him without delay. Then there were the strong hands, bending Alva over the table, the black braid sliding against his back, and a light ringing in his ears when it was all over. And then − grilled duck flavored with the pungent Arislani herbs, love-filled silver eyes looking at Alva, and the rumbling voice that made warmth spread through Alva’s veins. And so, again, he failed to ask Kintaro the question that has been bothering him for a long time now. 

Except, he was not entirely sure what the question would be. “Who’s the prick teaser, chief?” Because that’s exactly what he thought was happening. When Kintaro came home, he totally ran amok. First, he’d fling himself on Ithildin. Of course, since he was no frail human and did not require gentle handling. No need to bother with lubricant, kissing or foreplay. The first flush of lust sated, Kintaro would get on to Alva, and only then would he regain the capacity of human speech, and cease acting like a rutting beast ready to hump any available hole. 

It all started when they got to Iskenderun, the capital of Arislan, and rented a pleasant roomy house in Zeinab Street. No, perhaps a little later − when Kintaro began his service as a palace guard. If you put together everything that Alva had heard about the Arislanian mores, and what with the wanton barbarian ways… no wonder that, after a day at the palace, Kintaro had a bad case of sperm poisoning. 

Alva had not been to Arislan before, but he knew a great many things that you wouldn’t find in any book. Some of this knowledge, however, he chose to conceal. It was acquired in a somewhat unusual way, you might say. 

**3.**

Few of Alva Ahayrre’s acquaintances wondered about the source of the young rake’s wealth and how he came to have all those diamonds, rich clothes, thoroughbred horses, collectible art, money for the lavish feasts and all the rest. Even if anyone paused to think about it, the answer would seem obvious: it had to be his inheritance combined with the pay of the lieutenant in the King’s Guard, plus gifts from lovers and whatever royalties his poetry fetched. Not that any of these income sources would have funded a lavish lifestyle on its own, but taken all together − why not? 

It would have taken a careful bookkeeper to see that expenditures of the brilliant courtier, at times, exceeded his income by a large margin. It was especially true right after he had graduated from the Royal Academy, when his poems were not yet being published all over Creede. On the other hand, if said bookkeeper had chosen to share his suspicions, it would have been pointed out to him that poking his nose into Alva Ahayrre’s business was unwise. The military intelligence unit was the one responsible for Alva’s unaccounted income. 

Alva had first drawn the attention of the Secret Service* when he began to hang out in the company of those most prominent in the social life of the capital, and that included foreigners. A king’s protégé and former page, a Royal Academy graduate, a lieutenant of the Royal Guard and close to the higher-ranking officers, a famous poet, a trend-setting courtier, a handsome devil, a libertine trailing broken hearts, savvy in politics, culture and literature, and fluent in Faris, to boot − Alva was welcome in the aristocratic circles and all doors were open to him. Besides, if needed, he could always find entryways other than the door. 

The short of it, was that, for a substantial reward, Chevalier Ahayrre carried out delicate missions now and then. It required ingenuity, charm and certain skills peculiar to secrets agents. Nothing extraordinary. Getting a Tharn officer drunk and paying attention to what he said; keeping an Arislani traveler occupied for a period of time; going through a Marranian merchant’s secret drawers… Chevalier Ahayrre’s visit to the Essanti had been one of these assignments. Naturally, nobody required Alva to sleep with his targets, but Alva’s light-hearted promiscuity only aided him. 

Now, Alva was educated in the Arislani politics while in His Majesty’s Secret Service and in the Arislani Ambassador’s bed. Oh, god, no, the Ambassador was not in it at the time. For starters, Alva was not partial to the swarthy type. The Wild Steppe dwellers marked about the outer limit of his racial non-discrimination. True, the Ambassador, Farhad Al-Shiri, had a certain manly charm, but even the worst libertine would not dare to go after a homophobic Arislani as highly ranked and risk an international scandal. But the notable had two wives that he occasionally, as a nod to the Creedan customs, let attend balls and functions. The younger one did not interest Alva much − she being no more than a pretty plaything − but the eldest… 

Even now, Alva couldn’t help his mouth watering whenever he remembered her. A lovely woman, twice his age and twice as experienced, sharp of mind and keen of eye, Madiha had told him enough to fill three volumes. Yes, the Arislani women were oppressed and kept out of the society of men. That is exactly why they were not reckoned with and allowed to be present during the most confidential discussions. Come on, not like Arislani women could even bear witness in court. If they could, Alva did not dare imagine how many heads would have rolled, and how many idols would have been cast down. 

Take, for example, that sacred cow of Arislani’s uniform heterosexuality. Though “Khefeirut,” the novel, had seriously undercut that myth, but then it was instantly banned in Arislan on the grounds of its extreme obscenity. The author, charged with treason and seditious libel, went into hiding somewhere in the North. Hand copies of the novel, poorly translated, still made the rounds. Creedan publishing houses were sitting on it, for fear of political fallout. Alva who was close to the Minister of Foreign Affairs (sleeping with her, actually), easily got an original for himself. 

The word “khefeirut” stood for “hierarchy,” “sacred duty” or “Karma,” all closely related terms in Faris. It was a story of a talented youth trying to make it in Iskenderun, while all his superiors only cared about his good looks. To put it simply, the novel described the practice of sexual harassment, which − if the author was to be believed− was an everyday thing everywhere in Arislan, from city halls to Khalid’s palace. The officials got it on with their secretaries; the lawyers cavorted with their clients; the aristocrats dallied with the bodyguards and the boys in the underground brothels, and the Khalid himself staffed the palace guard with blond beefcakes. It was all told frankly and humorously. 

Naturally, not a single man in Arislan would have admitted, even on pain of death, that the “revolting piece of slander” bore even a passing resemblance to reality. But when Alva mentioned “Khefeirut” to Madiha, she merely shrugged one smooth shoulder and said, in that husky voice of hers that drove Alva mad with desire, “If that poor youth had only written about the goings on in our harems, they wouldn’t merely outlawed the author, they would have hunted and cut down everyone who touched the book.” 

**4.**

So, in some ways, Chevalier Ahayrre even sympathized with Kintaro. It was only to be expected. On that memorable day they had gone to the market together. God Almighty, Kintaro looked so hot in the traditional Arislani garb of black silk, Alva would have fucked him then and there. Since the chief no longer wanted to draw attention, he had stepped out of his usual leather pants and mocassins, tied his hair into a civilized single braid, and put on canvas shoes, loose pants and a belted jacket that lay so prettily against his wide chest. 

Alva salivated every time he looked at Kintaro. He could barely stick to the shopping list. His thoughts kept turning to what they would do once they got home. So he barely heard the horns that heralded the arrival of some Arislani top knob. When one of those passed, you had to move out of the way and bow, or, at least, lower your gaze. Distracted, Alva had almost stepped on his skirt, and barely managed to pull on Kintaro’s sleeve to get him to step aside. Kintaro stood tall, and looked to the side, presenting a rather half-hearted display of deference. Alva regretted that they had not turned into a side street and now stuck out in this crowd like a raven and a parrot in a flock of sparrows. 

Just as he had expected! Alva, eyes still lowered, heard the passenger of the litter order the bearers to stop right in front of them. 

_Please let it not be the Vizier, anybody but him!_ he prayed silently. 

The Grand Vizier of the Khalid of Arislan was in the habit of inviting all foreign lady visitors to the palace. He was determined to see his ruler married; understandable, since the forty-year old Khalid had no sons. Even daughters, he had only one − a wild oat sowed in his youth. It appeared that, since then, Khalid had no great interest in women. But the Grand Vizier did not give up hope that, one day, one of those loose and lovely Northern women might stir the Khalid to producing an heir. 

Alva took a peek at the litter’s occupant, and at first heaved a sigh of relief − it was not the Vizier. But once he realized who the veiled youth, observing Kintaro so openly, was, Alva became uneasy. The Chevalier was no expert in Arislani heraldry, and would not have been able to tell the colors of the ruling family from those of the Council, but… a guard this numerous, a litter this rich and the eyes this pretty − even a moron would have known that this was the heir to the throne. The prince was the Khalid’s half-brother, answered to the name of Kismet, and was reckoned the most beautiful youth in Arislan. Alva would have given anything to see the boy without a veil over half his face. 

As Alva scrambled for something to say, the Khaliddin spoke himself, and addressed Kintaro in passable Common Tongue, “Welcome to our great city of Iskenderun, noble warrior of the steppes.” 

The noble warrior of the steppes bowed, and then looked at the Khaliddin so lewdly, Alva nearly snorted. But the high-born youth did not bat an eyelid. Quite the contrary, he looked Kintaro up and down with deliberate slowness and obvious interest. 

“If honorable service for good pay appeals to you, get yourself to the Small Palace tomorrow morning. Rulers need seasoned warriors,” he said, tearing his gaze away from the Essanti’s broad shoulders with evident effort. Then he ordered his bearers to go on. 

Back home, Alva had a ball: fairly howling with laughter, he gave the elf the blow by blow. How the prince was trying to pick up the nomad in the market-place, like he were a two-bit whore. The taunting had gone so far, that Kintaro went off sulking, something he had never done before. Might be that the Chevalier’s jibes had reminded Kintaro that he was living here at Alva’s expense. Or he might have felt bored without a purpose. Either way, the next day Kintaro had gone to the palace, and came back with a badge of the Khaliddin’s personal guard. 

* * *

**5.**

Alva’s words did rankle, but not for the reasons that had occurred to Alva. Kintaro was simply angry that some boy looked at him as if he were a slave or a servant. The Essanti chief was not used to being the object of attention; he always took whatever he fancied, and knew no resistance. A prince, my ass. As if Kintaro would drop his pants at his bidding. Kintaro was certain that the Small Palace would see none of him tomorrow, or in the next thousand years. Having resolved this, he thought he’d find solace in the arms of his sweet redhead (and other body parts too). 

But Alva, tired out by the heat and the market-place throng, was not enthused. He already had that inward look that accompanied his bloody inspirations. After giving his lover a couple of chaste kisses, he gently but firmly made Kintaro unhand him and reached for a notebook. Kintaro hinted − in word and in deed − that damn poems could be made up anytime, like − but Alva failed to concur. Alva said he was in the habit of thinking with his head (with the one on top of his shoulders, unlike Kintaro) and locked himself in the bedroom, shouting through the door, “Go read a book or something!” 

The redhead’s snide comment wasn’t completely justified. Kintaro did flip through a book occasionally, mainly Arislani novels filled with colorful prints of warriors in full armor, battle maps and landscape depictions. The erotic drawings weren’t too bad either, but palled quickly, as they did not show any man on man action. 

Annoyed, Kintaro thought that the redhead had been much more forthcoming in the steppe. The two of them could have stayed forever in his tent, his guests and his concubines. Kintaro effortlessly recalled to mind two bodies entirely at his disposal spread across the furs. He headed straight for the kitchen where the elf was fiddled with his pots and pans. Fired up by the memories, he grabbed Ithildin and tried to have him right there on the table. 

Unusually, the elf did not shout his, “swine, animal, don’t touch me, unhand me, not like this, not that way, gentler, slower…” He shook Kintaro off and hissed, without even looking at him, something in Elvish that had the unmistakable finality of a “no.” An attempt to persuade him failed as well. 

After a fairly strong punch to his side, Kintaro flared, “And what’s your deal, doll-face? It’s no skin off your nose. No, not your nose.” 

“I don’t have to make myself available to you whenever you feel like it,” said Ithildin curtly. 

“My ass, you don’t. You do make yourself available, and just try saying you don’t like it.” 

Ithildin turned and stared Kintaro down. 

“An elf obeys his heart and his mind, not his… that,” the elf gestured vaguely in the direction of his belt buckle. “I like sex. It’s you I dislike. Always acting like a crude barbarian.” 

“And you are always acting a touch-me-not and a prude. I don’t like you either.” 

“I am an elf.” 

“And I am an Essanti. I am who I am. That’s exactly why you want me as much as you do.” 

Ithildin’t grin was downright insulting. “I can say the exact same thing about you.” 

Kintaro couldn’t think of anything else to say, and that was rare enough. “Oh, go fuck yourself,” he spat, and left the kitchen. 

Kintaro was never too keen on his right hand as a partner (or his left one, for that matter), so there was only one way to vent the frustration: do a few traditional Essanti exercises designed for keeping one in shape and in good spirits. That’s exactly what Kintaro did in the small inner courtyard amidst the blooming jasmine. But first, he stripped down and fashioned himself a loincloth from a black silk scarf. 

What do you know, within the hour, the redhead was peering out of his bedroom window, his gaze never wavering from the dusky body slick with sweat. And, who would have thought, within the next fifteen minutes, the chief was fucking him right on the window sill. The interlude mollified Kintaro somewhat. But in the morning, he remembered the prince again, and his blatantly roving eyes, and became surly again. The rest was easy to guess. 

_I’ll show him who is in charge here_ , Kintaro swore to himself, and headed to the Small Palace, wherein resided the Khaliddin. 

**6.**

Either the guards had been warned to expect him, or the ripped manly men were a common sight at these gates, but Kintaro was brought to the Commander of the Guards straight away. The job interview had been an obvious formality. Kintaro barreled through his made-up biography, the Commander equally sped through the duties of a palace guard, and then, free at last, they got on the subject of horse breeds. The Commander turned out to be half-Verlown, and an avid horseman. His obvious sorrow at having to let the new acquaintance go testified to how dull the guarding job was. But it did not put Kintaro off. He was past the age of youthful curiosity but he still found many things in Arislan fascinating. Even if he rarely permitted himself to display it, choosing to appear unmoved most of the time. 

As Kintaro passed through the palace, flanked by two guards, he barely looked around. Few could have guessed that he was taking in every detail. The Essanti did not care about the architecture or the decor, instead he was keenly aware of whatever arms were borne by the men, the servants’ conduct, the placement of the guards and the location of the doors. 

He wasn’t surprised at how many white-skinned Northerners, swarthy nomads and deeply tanned men from around the Falkhid Sea were all over the place. He knew from Chevalier Ahayrre that the Arislani rulers had always elected to hire foreigners who did not belong to the Arislani complicated familial network. It was unlikely that any scion of the numerous Arislani clans would ever place his loyalty to the Khalid or his love of money above the blood ties. With the constant strife for power amid the clans and the rather vague rules of succession, a faithful army was the only way to ensure the Khalid’s safety. 

The court mage came next. His reception room was set up to bowl over the simpler visitors: there was the ceiling emblazoned with stars and runes, a skeleton of an odd beclawed creature, thick volumes in strange tongues strewn about, multiple artifacts of unknown purpose glittering with silver and crystal, a couple of dusty human skulls and other sundry tools of the trade. 

The mage interested Kintaro much more than all the bric-a-brac. This was the first mage Kintaro had ever met. The mage wore a long loose robe, covered with mysterious symbols, and a funny pointy hat. Smooth-faced and arrogant, the mage delivered a pompous speech about magic’s omnipotence and its ability to peer at the darkest vices hidden within the soul of man. Eventually, he deigned to explain that Kintaro was to undergo a magical test of his mindset. 

“Do you agree to have the purity of your intentions towards the Khaliddin assessed by me?” asked the mage archly. 

“Sure.” Kintaro nearly sniggered. Looked like his guarding would be over before it even started. 

How did it go, in the Arislani sodomy laws? “Lecherous acts performed in relation to persons of the male gender,” was it? Not that it said anything about lecherous thoughts. So far, no legal system on the continent had thought to punish solely for intentions. Not that his intentions in relation to the Khaliddin were going to get him a pat on the back… or on anything else… He’ll so get kicked out of the palace! 

In the meantime, the mage was starting a fire in the small brazier, throwing herbs on the flames, setting out his amulets, books, and a mirror in a gold frame. Kintaro amused himself by imagining the mage stripped of his mantle. Would he look as much of a pompous ass in bed? Figuring he had nothing to lose, the chief thought he’d go for it full speed. 

“Hey, hotcakes, whatcha doing tonight?” he asked and pinched the mage’s bottom for good measure. 

“How dare you! Brute!” squealed the mage, nearly knocking over the table and instantly losing all his airs. 

_Some piece-of-shit mage, that_ , Kintaro thought and grinned. _Nice ass, though._

“Quit twitching, I’m just asking,” Kintaro generously reassured the mage, since he was so obviously nervous. 

Still tense, the mage was now ready to start the rite. After an incantation, he ordered Kintaro to think about the Khaliddin. Kintaro did. He liked it, and thought some more. The mage, who was looking in the mirror at that moment, turned tomato red. He threw a cloth over the mirror and announced, “The test is over, you are free to go,” and handed Kintaro a sealed scroll to take to the Commander of the Guards. The scroll had to have been prepared in advance. Most amusing. 

Kintaro went past the heavy brocade curtains that separated off the anteroom, reached the door to the hallway (his guards were waiting outside), decisively banged it, and tiptoed back to hide behind the curtains. 

His hunch proved right. In less than a minute, he heard the mage say, “He is gone, Your Highness.” 

There was a rustle, and the familiar boyish voice asked, “So, Darius? What was he thinking?” 

“Oh, Your Highness! Have I not asked you, time and again, to spare me? But the thoughts of this savage have been so lewd and filthy, “Khefeirut” paled in comparison! Think about the risks, Your Highness! One day, these games will end badly for you.” 

“What’s the point of being a khaliddin, if you can’t do whatever you want,” chirped the Prince. His speech had the lilting cadence of the Arislani, missing in the Creedan babble and the nomad spare speech. 

“If you only knew what it is you want!” 

“I know exactly what I want. He’ll be my personal guard, and he’ll be kissing my slippers before the month is out.” 

“Doesn’t strike me as a man who’d be content with kissing just slippers, that one.” 

The Prince laughed. “My, you are surly today, Darius! What, you like him too?” he teased. “Or eighty years of celibacy have dried you up for good?” 

_Eighty years?_ Kintaro shivered. _Deliver us._

“I am merely concerned about your safety, Your Highness,” the mage responded primly. 

“What, you think getting a simple nomad to obey would be a problem for me? Here, drink to my health instead, or else go get a girl for yourself tonight. That ought to stop you puffing up like a turkey.” He threw a purse at the mage and headed to the door. 

The Prince pulled aside the curtain… and had to step back when he saw the nomad, wearing the widest of grins and leaning against the wall. 

“So that’s why I was such a shoo-in,” Kintaro said, raising an eyebrow. “Kissing slippers, huh? We’ll see about that.” 

He really enjoyed the dismay in the boy’s face, and the face too, as it was now uncovered. 

At the sight of the Khaliddin’s face kissing immediately came to mind, but its object certainly wouldn’t have been any footwear. Perhaps it would have been the khaliddin’s lovely curving mouth, or his ear framed by black curls and hung with a heavy gold earring, or his arching neck, or… The Prince’s exceedingly flimsy cloths offered a choice of venues. 

His sleeveless vest was so short, it would have barely covered his navel. If it were buttoned. But not only was it unbuttoned completely, it flapped open showing off the lithe young muscles beneath the skin the color of the finest milk chocolate. The Prince’s shalvars, roguishly riding low on his hips, were richly embroidered, but still made of transparent gauze. As Kintaro’s eyes were drawn down the dark trail of hairs going from the shell of the belly-button into the belt, he ascertained that underwear was unpopular in Arislan, particularly in informal settings. The Prince shuffled his feet, and the lightweight gauze outlined such a wealth of interesting sights, that Kintaro had to swallow hard. 

And then the blasted youth grinned and looked Kintaro straight in the eye. There wasn’t the slightest doubt that he was aware of the effect he was having. This was going to prove one hell of a ride. 

“I hope not to have said anything to frighten you, noble warrior,” said the Prince and proceeded into the hallways. His round buttocks glimmered through the fabric and swayed temptingly. Kintaro could not look away from them until the Prince turned the corner. 

One of the guards, a blond giant with a bushy beard, slapped Kintaro on the shoulder. “Hey, nomad, come on! You’ll have plenty more chances to drool, by Llyd!” 

**7.**

An hour later, Kintaro had become one of the guards at the Small Palace, and took up his duties the next day. When the Commander came out to see the new guards spar, he could not help gawking. Never before had he seen what an Essanti could do with a shield and a longsword. 

"Hey, you are a one-man circus, you know that?" The bearded Northerner took a liking to Kintaro from the start. The fellow, named Sigmar, came from Belg, an island on the Falkhid Sea, west of Creede. He swore by Llyd, guzzled wine like there was no tomorrow, and combined remarkable strength with a sweetness of disposition. He was the only guard who surpassed Kintaro in height and shoulder width. 

But Kintaro was none too pleased with himself. A shield and a longsword were good in the open, but not nearly as useful within closed walls or in the narrow streets. He absolutely had to get another sword, a shorter one. Besides, the Essanti felt he was out of practice in a swordfight, or any fight at all, to be honest. Joining the guards had been the right decision. He had gotten far too lazy during the fat months on the Tamani estate. Not that he got to leave the bed much, by the end. Grown tipsy on wine, Alva's friend would grow more wanton than a bitch in heat. Not that he wouldn’t blush and act all coy at a joke or a slap on the ass the next day. He was the first dark-skinned Arislani Kintaro had ever fucked, and Kintaro sincerely hoped he would not be the last. Recently, he had begun to find Arislani men wildly exciting, especially if they were handsome, young and dashing. 

Once his battle skills were tested in every possible way, Kintaro was placed in the Prince’s personal guard. The Prince’s Head Tutor informed Kintaro of the appointment, and then launched into a lengthy lecture filled with ummms and pregnant pauses. 

“The Khaliddin is young and rash,” mumbled the old man. “He is inclined to act thoughtlessly. Perhaps the attitude he displays towards his bodyguards might strike you as overly informal… But it is incumbent upon you, young man, to respect our cultural traditions, no matter what your own ways and predilections might be… As far as your charge is concerned, you ought to remain within the boundaries of decency and discourage any undue familiarity… “ 

Kintaro laughed to himself, as he nodded sagely. He barely suppressed the urge to ask in all innocence, “What, so we won’t get to fuck at all?” 

On the other hand, after hanging around other guards for some time, Kintaro was no longer quite so certain that bedding the Khaliddin was imminent. Sigmar was especially eloquent on the subject, when he and Kintaro went to the tavern to celebrate Kintaro’s appointment. 

“I used to be in his personal guard myself,” the Tharn told him, waving a greasy calf leg. “Half a year, all I could take. More than the flesh and blood could stand. What this little bastard pulled… all you could do was run out into the courtyard and jerk off. By Llyd, I was never into boys, but to see him wiggle his shoulders this way, and flutter his eyelashes that way… man, it sets your head on fire. And that little slut knows full well what he’s doing to grown men. Some, he’d drive up the wall special. There had been one here before me. A Creedan thug. A brilliant swordsman, and all that. I never met him, others told me. Nobody knows what went on between those two, but the Prince would wriggle his ass at the poor guy, like few whores can. Everybody saw. So the Creedan could no longer stand it, and got frisky with the Prince in a dark corner. So then comes on hell of a shitstorm, and he is out of the country within a day. Did not even get his last month’s pay. The Prince, him too, was under lock and key for a month or two. And I once saw a masseur getting flogged. Know why? He…” Sigmar gestured. 

“The boy is ripe for plucking, I guess,” grinned Kintaro. 

“Get over it, nomad, see. A prick teaser, that one, but he won’t be handing it over any time soon. He’d be so had in our village and get that itch of his scratched, but here… not here. Just have to suck it up and deal. Me, I couldn’t deal. When I began dreaming about his ass, I went to the Commander. Said, “get me the hell out of here.” 

“So what, he did nothing to make you stay?” 

“Not like he looked my way much,” Sigmar sighed a little. 

_So that one still carries the torch_ , Kintaro thought, _and not just him, looks like, but half the palace guard too. Not bad for a boy._

**8.**

Once he commenced his duties, the Essanti was confirmed in his opinion. The lithe and pretty Khaliddin Kismet was already versed in the art of driving a grown man to madness with a mere glance or a hip wiggle. He was entirely devoid of the Arislani primness and reveled in parading half-nude in front of the guards and servants, as if they were not quite people to him. The only giveaway was how his eyes glimmered. He was anything but oblivious to the effect his nudity was having. 

The chief cursed the bloody Arislani laws inwardly. If not for them, the youth would have long gotten what he wanted, and would have ceased tormenting all those around him. His victims were not confined to the help; even the aristocrats, members of the court, were not immune. Once, Kintaro saw a son of a minister hide and weep bitterly in the garden, after the Khaliddin made merciless fun of him for sporting an erection. An erection caused by the Khaliddin’s touches in the first place. If they were anywhere else, Kintaro would have consoled the crying youth, but an Arislani jail did not beckon, so he forced himself to stay put. 

Those in charge of the Prince were inclined to turn a blind eye. The Head Tutor did lecture him daily about appropriate behavior, and occasionally the Grand Vizier did too, but the boy let this prattle into one ear and out the other. But there wasn’t the slightest doubt that, should his antics cross the line, the punishment would be swift and merciless. Sigmar’s story confirmed it. 

There was an Arislani saying that went, “A khalid may do what a khaliddin may not.” In this particular case, it was literally true. The Khalid, a tall, handsome man with a trim beard, went about in the company of two bodyguards. It was said that they slept in his bedroom too, all in the interest of ensuring his safety, of course. The pair was Tharn twins, strong and silent, of rich blond manes and sculpted muscular bodies. “Khalid’s milk brothers,” Sigmar explained, grinning lewdly. “Milk brothers, of course,” Kintaro nodded sagely. “I can just see the three of them sucking… Quit braying, I didn’t say what it was they were sucking, did I?” 

The young Khaliddin hankered for a man’s embrace without really knowing what he was after. Or else he did, but was too afraid and ashamed of his desires and their consequences. So instead, he pitched fits, threw tantrums and sorely tried the patience of those in his vicinity (young attractive males, Creedans, Marranians, nomads, Tharns, Verlowns, who mostly had nothing against same-sex love). 

Kintaro thought to discern the Khaliddin’s purpose: he was trying to provoke someone into taking him by force. Then the perpetrator would be punished at will, while the Khaliddin played a poor innocent victim. After a short while, Kintaro was convinced he was right. It was also evident who was to be cast as the perpetrator. The wild nomad, going berserk at the sight of a boy’s smooth ass. 

Kintaro very nearly gnashed his teeth, whenever the Khaliddin casually ran his hand over Kintaro’s knee or shoulder. Or when the Khaliddin innocently bumped into him, or pressed his hot lithe body against Kintaro’s during sword practice. It was at those moments, that the Essanti chief would reflect on the coldness of a jail, the thickness of its bars, random zoophilia and the fat nun making a pass at him in a supplies closet at the monastery. It was only a warrior’s iron will that let him remain composed. That and pride. The boy would beg. Kintaro saw no reason why it would not happen. 

Until recently, he had gotten along with all the royal scions. Upon close inspection, they had all turned out to be creatures of flesh and blood, as ready to give themselves over to passion as the youngest Essanti pup. Whatever happened to the airs and graces! Take the Creedan king, for example. He was still attractive in his own way, never mind his old age, and, once Kintaro had to suppress an urge to kiss him when they were bending together over a map. He might have gone for it eventually, but the king, probably having sensed something of the kind, never came close to Kintaro again. 

Which made Kintaro switch over and pursue Princess Tin-Tin, as she was known. She was his as soon as he clambered into her window at night. And she had looked a regular ice queen. Targhai’s late son, he too, could qualify as a royal blue-blood, even if that were a bit of a stretch. But his father had proudly styled himself king. Kintaro did not tell this to anyone, but one late night, he caught up to the pup and fucked him against the wall. To put him in his place. 

Kintaro could have done exactly that to the Khaliddin, but it would have meant giving in to the boy. And that was not for the nomad. _Nuts to you_ , he’d think nastily when they wrestled, and the Khaliddin panted against his chest or when he put arm around the boy to show him how to draw the bow. 

Days changed into weeks, but the young tease did not give up. He got into the habit of parading in front Kintaro in nothing but a towel around his hips. A towel that threatened to slip at any moment. He also liked to question Kintaro about sex in the steppe. In lurid detail. At those times, the Prince would lean back on the pillows, lips parted as if for a kiss, sigh languidly and even absently touch himself. It would be usually at dusk, when the two of them were alone behind closed doors, and, afterwards, Kintaro would have steam coming out of his ears. 

Once he went off duty, he could not even make it home; he stopped at the first brothel on the way and ask for a younger-looking whore, with a slim waist and narrow hips. And if he did go home right away, there he went completely wild. Only after two or three bouts of wild fucking, the memory of the lovely brown eyes would begin to fade. 

“You crazy stud, let me sleep!” Alva would moan trying to burrow into the pillows. Then Kintaro would throw the elf over his shoulder and drag him into the garden, where he would have the elf every way till dawn. It was a special treat, having a lover of the Ancient Race. They could keep taking it without sleep or rest, and there was not much risk of any injures. 

Besides, Alva was not nearly as fed up of Kintaro’s demands as he was trying to show. He would ask at breakfast, “Worn it down to the nub yet?” And get an object lesson right away. 

But no matter how awesome his lovers were, the forbidden fruit seemed more awesome still. 

* * * 

**9.**

Slim arms folded behind his head, Kismet stretched and asked, “Tell me some more about Zeigana. They say the boys there add a braid to their hair for each new lover…” 

His eyes glistened in the semi-darkness, his chest heaved, and his face was alive with curiosity. Languidly, he stretched out a bare foot and touched it to Kintaro’s bicep. 

“It is late, I have to get going.” Kintaro had been sitting next to the Prince, but now he moved to rise. 

“What’s the hurry?” purred the Prince, stretching again. 

“I am expected at home.” Kintaro did not avert his gaze, but did not show even a flicker of interest. As if it wasn’t a lovely half-clad youth splayed before him, but a monstrous hag. 

“Are you so devoted to your lady? I could pay you much more, you know. She could get another bodyguard.” 

“She has much to recommend her, besides a full purse.” Kintaro sounded most suggestive and almost smacked his lips. 

It worked. The boy sulked. He seemed irked by having to endure the rivalry with the beautiful redhead from the North. Kintaro grinned inwardly and rose from the pillows. 

“Wait,” Kismet called to him, rising on his elbows. “Do you know how to do a massage? I might have pulled a shoulder.” Then he pulled off his wispy little shirt. 

Without the slightest emotion, Kintaro nodded, and lightly pushed the Khaliddin down on his stomach. He stretched out on the pillows instantly, and even spread his legs a bit. 

“Sit on top, will be easier for you,” he whispered. As soon as the Essanti started on him, the boy invitingly arched his back and let out a long sigh of pleasure. 

“Kitabayashi tazar!” swore Kintaro, feeling an erection come on. He could hardly hide it, with the boy lying like that between his knees, fidgeting against the pillows and sticking out his ass. Not that the disposition seemed to bother him. Kintaro kept on massaging the boy’s back, and the boy moaned, openly and brazenly, and moved his hips up and down again… 

Kintaro stared at the line of the spine, the frail shoulder blades, drew in the warm scent of the Prince’s skin, and his head swam. It seemed the most natural thing in the world rip off the pants, push him into the pillows, smother any cries…The brat wouldn’t dare tell anyone, would he? He’d get a hell of a whipping himself, if it became known. 

Kintaro no longer massaged, he caressed and fondled, while the boy clutched at the bedcover, crumpling it, and thrashed beneath the nomad. His breath was coming in short bursts. Nobody had ever excited Kintaro this much. Nobody. Except, perhaps, the redhead and his prude of an elf. 

Kintaro took a deep breath, sighed, rose and said evenly, “It is really time for me to leave, Your Highness. I will see you tomorrow.” It was anyone’s guess what it took to maintain the even tone. 

A pitiful half-sigh, half-moan rose from amid the pillows. “Kintaro!” 

“What?” 

“Nothing, just go,” the Prince sounded disappointed. He was hiding his face in the pillow. 

As Kintaro left, an enraged whisper reached his ears, “Idiot!” and that made Kintaro grin. 

During the next two days, the Prince remained cool and standoffish. Kintaro did not twitch a muscle; not even when the Prince began to flirt with one his younger tutors. Those tricks were too cheap for Kintaro. Although, the chief had gotten rather used to being in the brown eyes’ line of fire. Missing the heat, Kintaro pointed himself due the nearest tavern, as soon as he came off duty. 

Very quickly, he realized he was being followed all the way from the palace. It was a lithe and fast someone, covered up by the hooded black djellaba of the desert dwellers, the Banukhids. They were often hired as spies or messengers. This one was rather skilled, and Kintaro might not have noticed him at all, if it weren’t for a nomad’s sharpened senses and being on the alert since coming to Arislan. There was still no reason to discount Targhai. Besides, there were also the bandits they had pissed off in Isfahan. 

Kintaro stepped off into a side-street and waited for his unwelcome retinue. Within less than a minute, the fellow, out of breath and preoccupied, ran past him. Or, rather tried, because Kintaro seized him by the throat and threw him against the wall. 

“Who sent you, whelp?” Kintaro growled. 

The captive emitted a squawk, and Kintaro ripped a kerchief off his face. 

“Of all the mother-fucking …” mumbled Kintaro, stunned. 

None other than Khaliddin Kismet thrashed in his arms. When Kintaro realized it, he let go of Kismet’s throat, and, taking him by the shoulders, shook him hard. 

“You have a lot of explaining to do, your bloody highness!” he hissed. “What the hell are you doing here, unguarded? Are you completely nuts, or what?” 

“Let me go!” the boy squirmed and tried to kick him. Kintaro looked around briefly and then smacked Kismet heartily. 

“I can always say I did not recognize you,” he said pleasantly. “Spill it.” 

The Prince quivered, lowered his eyes, and stopped trying to pull out. “I was only following you. Not like it’s a crime.” Now he sounded offended. 

“Of course not. Especially if you happen to be dreaming about knifed in a side-street, or, better yet, sold to a brothel.” 

Kismet tried to look unfazed. “For your information, I am under magical protection.” 

“Some protection!” Kintaro was openly sarcastic now. By way of illustrating, he gave Kismet a painful ding on the ear. 

“It protects me from others, not from you!” 

“Really sorry, highness, but you are a lunatic to end all lunatics. I’d be the first one to kill you. How was I to know who is spying on me?” 

“Darius promised you wouldn’t notice me at all…” whined the Prince. 

“So why in fuck’s name did you follow me?” 

“Kintaro, please… don’t be mad. I just wanted to walk around the city… with you…” 

The Essanti chief could not believe his ears, but the Prince actually sounded contrite. 

“That was a dumb idea,” he said, mollified. “Bet everyone is looking for you with their heads on fire. What am I supposed to do now, take you back to the palace?” 

“Nobody will come looking for me till morning. Could I please stay with you? Just for a bit! I’ve never been as far as here. And, if I am with you, I’ve got nothing to be afraid of, right?” 

“My ass. Go home, and don’t even think of sticking around. And you better pray I don’t squeal on you.” 

“No.” 

“You want me to drag you by the ear?” 

“You do that. I’ll scream that you are assaulting me.” Kismet cast him a coy glance and singsonged quietly, “Help! Oh, goodness, help! The barbarian is trying to rape me!” 

Kintaro spat angrily and swore, “Amanozaki fuck me!” Amanozaki was the Essanti god of war and, according to legends, no gentle lover. “All right, have it your way. We’ll have a cup of wine in this tavern, and you’ll go back to the palace like a good boy.” 

But they did not stop at one cup of wine. Suddenly, a bunch of fellow drinkers materialized, and with them came dice and coins, so that, within half an hour, their table was crowded. 

Someone suggested arm-wrestling, and Kismet would always squeal delightedly whenever Kintaro smacked someone’s hand against the table. The boy obviously delighted in being in a low dive. Everything seemed thrilling here − the soot-covered walls, the strong wine, the rough speech. 

A scarred thug came up to Kintaro, “Yo, strongman, want to wager your boy?” 

Kintaro noticed the impish look on Kismet’s face, and then the boy let out a long sentence in Faris that was clearly wickedly insulting. The thug roared and tried to grab the boy’s shoulder. Kintaro sighed and threw a table over. Within minutes, the fight was everywhere. 

Kismet, crouching by the wall, did not take his shining eyes off Kintaro. “Hit him, Kintaro, hit him!” he screamed, bouncing. 

His adversaries piled up in a heap, Kintaro dragged the Prince to the door. The Prince was nearly pissing himself with delight. 

“Now you are so going home,” hissed Kintaro, and tossed a handful of coins to the innkeeper. 

But the Khaliddin suddenly stumbled and hung heavy on Kintaro’s shoulder. 

“My head… it’s spinning …” he whispered, eyes rolling in the back of his head. 

“A room for you, my lord?” the innkeeper chimed in eagerly. “It’s got a bed and a bucket.” 

Ready to curse the day he was born, Kintaro handed over a silver coin. 

“And you’ll get another one just like it, if nobody bothers us until morning. Get me coffee and a bucket of cold water, fast.” 

A small second-storey room was lit with a single candle. Kintaro bolted the door, dropped the Prince’s unresponsive body on the bed. Cursing, he tried to untie the scarf and the belt to let the boy breath. 

Two arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him close, while lips found his lips. 

_So he did play me after all. Oldest trick in the book_ , thought Kintaro. But he was already crushing the slim body in his embrace and biting into the yearning mouth. 

But, when Kismet went for his belt, Kintaro came to his senses. 

“Don’t do that. You shouldn’t.” He sat up on the bed trying not to look at the half-naked Prince. “You are drunk and you’ll be regretting it tomorrow.” 

“I am not drunk,” said the Prince. “It all went under the table. I don’t want to be drunk... my first time.” 

“You are crazy. I haven’t got any lubricant, even.” 

“I do.” The Prince began to dig in his clothes. 

Kintaro cursed this thinking ahead. Now it made sense why the magical protection did not work against Kintaro. Could have spoiled the moment. 

“You don’t even know what you are in for.” 

“Kintaro... I want...” The prince licked his lips and whispered, “Please, take my virginity.” 

Even a stone idol of the steppes would have crumbled. 

Kismet was an avid pupil, and a gifted one. Undoubtedly, he had practiced on his own as well, and had saved himself unnecessary pain. There was something particularly delightful about partners entirely unversed in the love of men; the pleasure that, until Arislan, had been unknown to the Essanti chief (discounting the elf). 

The Essanti did not let the boy rest, and came twice. Drunk on wine and lust, the bit of the hot night he retained, was the clanging of the boy’s bracelets, his moans, the curve in his back, and the way he was calling Kintaro’s name. Fucked senseless, Kismet passed out, his head on Kintaro’s shoulder. All things considered, his first time proved highly satisfactory. 

At dawn, Kintaro woke the Prince up. 

“And how are you, my pretty?” asked the chief, and was himself surprised at the tenderness in his voice. 

“Good,” came the sleepy reply. 

Kismet stretched out, not at all shyly, and suddenly smiled in a way that made Kintaro hot all over. 

“Get dressed, I’ll take you back to the palace.” 

“No need. I got this from Darius…” Kismet showed a plain silver ring on his finger. “Once I take it off, I’ll be in the secret chamber next to my bedroom.” 

_Son of a snake!_ gasped Kintaro inwardly. _So he could have gone back any time!_

With a nasty grin, the nomad inched closer, and grabbed the ring off the Khaliddin’s finger. The boy had time only for a short scream of outrage, and then he disappeared in a rainbow burst. 

Kintaro dressed leisurely and came down. Yesterday’s mess had been cleared up, and the innkeeper was looking bored behind the bar. He did spring into life at the sight of a second silver coin. 

“Do come again, my lord!” The innkeeper leaned over the bar, and added, sotto-voce, “If it is the boys you prefer, I could find a few far younger and more agreeable than your young friend. Nothing illegal, of course. Only… umm… conversation, to pass the lonely night.” 

“Boys… conversation,” muttered Kintaro, as he made his way through narrow streets homeward. “What a dive, sheesh.” 

**10.**

“You could have let us know,” Alva said dryly. “I have been worried, as it happens.” 

Kintaro felt a twinge of guilt. True, it never occurred to him to send anyone to Zeinab Street to warn he wasn’t coming. In fact, he forgot about everything, except his dusky lithe lover. 

“You don’t look so good,” he tried to change the subject. “Are you all right?” 

“I slept poorly, and I am no spring chicken.” 

Kintaro glanced at him briefly. Did the poet guess? Although Alva’s face showed nothing except annoyance. 

Kintaro could not know that Alva was up half the night worrying, and refusing to listen to Ithildin’s protestations that Kintaro could take care of himself. Then, in the morning, Alva noticed dark circles under his eyes, and that was the final straw. 

Chevalier Ahayrre, the loveliest flower of Trianess nobility, would have never admitted to anyone that he feared old age. While those in the civilized countries tended to retain their youthfulness long enough, and there were still more years to the first grey hairs than Alva had lived already, thirty was no fresh youth barely come of age. 

His worry was tinged with another fear, which he did not want to admit even to himself, let alone to others. So far, no lover had left him, and he very much hoped to do without the experience. 

When Kintaro tried to put his arm around him, Chevalier Ahayrre pouted and pulled away. “Go wash,” he said, and added, tartly, “Don’t know who it was you were diddling, but you stink like a two-bit whore.” 

The Essanti’s eyes flashed, but he went to bathe without a word. 

At night, the altercation was forgotten, but it was not to be the last. 

  

A lover like Kismet was the stuff of dreams: young, hot, wanton, and tireless, and utterly in love with Kintaro to boot. Khaliddin would often laugh, remembering their first night together; the night they had spent at a dive. Now they made love on soft cushions in that same secret chamber off the Khaliddin’s bedroom that the mage had secured against all intrusions. 

Kintaro got to wear the magic ring. Once it got put on the finger, it moved the wearer to the little room. Taken off, it returned you to where you started from. Darius’s magical abilities were sufficient for this kind of stuff. The Khaliddin had long befriended the mage, and the friendship was further solidified by timely infusions of cash, with exactly this kind of services in mind. The Khaliddin had no desire to see the incident with the Creedan guard repeated. 

...Sometimes, the night passes and they haven’t even said a word... so intent on sharing the fire that consumes their bodies. In the mornings, the boy is playful as a kitten, cuddles up to Kintaro, pours out his tea, clings to him, asks at parting, “You coming back tonight?” 

So Kintaro is the night watch now. Privileged to have his own sleeping place on the doormat. If anyone were to stop by tonight, he’d appear to be right there, the brave of the steppes, snoring away, while the Prince is resting after making love to one of his concubines (all illusions). The fake wall lets through neither the shaking of the bed, nor the passionate moaning. 

When he comes home, Kintaro does not notice the shadow that passes over Alva’s face. It’s all the same at first, no sign of a rift between them, Alva is mild and pleasant. Perhaps it is that they are spending less time together now? 

With just a tinge of regret, Kintaro thinks that he spends too much time in the palace, and not just in the Prince’s bed, but he is busy in the guards’ quarters, training, drinking hard. Alva misses him, probably... Oh, no, he thinks, irritated, enough here to keep him occupied. 

Today, they did not even notice that Kintaro had come back. Just kept on lolling under the jasmine bush, surrounded by pillows, fruits and books. Alva was telling something to Ithildin, laughing and making him smile. 

Jealousy was a rare visitor with Kintaro, but not a stranger. That was the stab he had felt when he stood silent by the open door. It seemed they were perfectly content with one another. No doubt. 

All the while, without ceasing to smile, Alva was saying, “Now will you look at that. Finally doing us the honor. He only comes home to eat and sleep. Don’t look his way, no point in letting him know we’ve seen him. I can just hear him thinking, ‘So should I fuck them once, or not bother?’ I’d rather he grabbed my ass in the hallway like he used to. I wonder how long it will take him to realize he hasn’t touched either one of us in two days? Will he realize it at all? What, I have to beg him now? My ass, I’ve got something better to do. Someone.” 

Then he jumped up on Ithildin. They rolled on the pillows laughing and did not notice that Kintaro bit his lip and retreated into the house. 

The Prince would be whispering into his ear throughout the hot nights. “Stay in Arislan. For good. You’ll want for nothing: money, titles, jewels, best weapons, best steeds − anything, even women if you like them. I’ll make you the Commander of the Guard, and then... I’ll be a khalid, sooner or later, you know. Then nobody could say a word about us, and we wouldn’t have to hide anymore. Then you could be a Grand Vizier, or a governor, or a general, just say the word.” 

“Not afraid, I’ll want to become a khalid?” Kintaro would laugh. “And keep you around for bedroom fun?” 

“I’ll seduce your bodyguard then, and he’ll kill you.” The Khaliddin pressed closer to him, and his doe eyes shone in the dark. “Do you know that _kismet_ is ‘destiny’ in Faris?” 

There were other conversations he started, too. “This redhead of yours, from the North − you sleeping with her?” 

Kintaro would just look at him blankly, disinclined to agree or deny. 

“And her friend, her too?” Kismet would keep up the jealous interrogation. Not getting an answer, he whispered, irritated, “Enough women in Arislan without them. They have their own path to follow, and you have yours.” The nomad just shook his head. 

“What are they to you?” asked Kismet. 

“I had nearly laid down my life for the two of them,” Kintaro answered tersely, and Kismet never asked again. 

But Alva had some questions now. 

“Why are you always there? Drawn like a fly to honey,” he said casually once. Pride would not let Alva ask directly why, in the last couple of months, Kintaro would rather be anywhere but home. 

“I have to stay in shape,” Kintaro shrugged. “Training and stuff.” 

“Ah. Training. And stuff. Yes, of course.” Alva’s expression was unreadable. “Working your, umm, fingers to the bone. All night long. And not like you hurry home after, either. Not that I mind, just idle curiosity. We all know how much you like having a social life.” 

“Maybe I would hurry home, if there was anybody here waiting for me,” the Essanti said slowly. 

“Oh, so we have to wait for you? You don’t say? Roll out the carpet for you too, perhaps? Fan you with peacock feathers, kind of thing?” 

Kintaro frowned, but said nothing. He took his sword off the wall, and slung it behind his back. Alva was none too pleased with this kind of composure. He turned up his nose and leaned against the wall, arms dramatically crossed. 

“Don’t wait for me tomorrow,” said Kintaro without looking at Alva, and Alva snapped. 

“Don’t bother coming back at all, if you ask me. What’s the point? You come back fucked silly, and with only one thought still left over: when can you get back to it? Well, no shit − he is young, and sweet, eyes like a doe, and a prince to boot!” Without meaning to, Alva sounded sulky. “Oh, yes, it’s all over your face − ‘I am fucking the heir of Arislan.’” He looked at Kintaro defiantly. “And what when the two of you get caught? He’ll get off free, but you’ll get your dick cut off and hammered to the city gates, to deter others.” 

This was too much even for Kintaro. 

“No, really? Someone around here still cares I’ve got a dick!” He loomed over Alva full of suppressed fury. “See, I thought, I was good enough back in the steppe, but here − I am suddenly too filthy, too rough, too ‘go read a book, you moron.’ Not everybody wants to come off as fine as you are. Take a look at yourself − a bit more and you’ll be going for a dick with a knife and fork.” 

Chevalier Ahayrre gasped, unable to retort. Kintaro turned and slammed out. After a minute’s delay, Alva jumped out on the porch and shouted, as sarcastic as could be, “Stop by sometime. We’ll have tea!” 

Predictably, the barbarian did not even turn. 

Remembering that he had not taken much care to dress, Alva darted back into the hallway. There, he leaned against the doorframe, and swore, loud and filthy. Ithildin walked up quietly and put his arms around Alva. 

“What was the point?” he asked quietly. “Why can’t you just admit you miss him?” 

“No way,” Alva was indignant. “Not like I had begged him to come to Arislan with me. He can fuck whomever he wants, and good riddance. We are happy enough without him, my love.” 

Ithildin sighed. If it were only true! 

**11.**

“Taro, why are you surly now?” the brown-eyed imp would cajole him. 

Kintaro looked at him morosely and frowned. Strange, now that the thrill of the chase was gone, and all the games of denial and withholding were over and done, the forbidden fruit seemed to lose much of its appeal. And Alva knowing about the affair made it especially tawdry. 

Kintaro had not been back to Zeinab Street for a week now, and, sometimes, the desire to look into the green eyes became unbearable. 

Yesterday night he could stand it no longer; he crept up to the house, climbed on the roof and peeked into the garden. The house was dark and quiet. “Fucking, I bet,” thought Kintaro viciously. 

He had no inkling that, at that very moment, Alva was burying his face in the pillow and saying to Ithildin, “Why would he do that to me? Sure, he got what he wanted and lost interest. Acts as if he doesn’t give a damn about me. I mean, would it hurt him... bring flowers, or, I don’t know, a bracelet. He just tosses me on the bed right away, even forgets to kiss me. I wanted him to treat me like a prince, not go out and get an actual prince for himself!” Unexpectedly, Alva sobbed. “If you want to know, I had lovers who’d do anything for me, gifts, diamonds, novels dedicated to me, duels fought in my name...” 

“And had even one of those ever saved your life?” whispered the elf. 

Alva could not understand, and Ithildin could not explain to him what he felt. It could be that Kintaro would never say a word of love to Lielle. He would simply face down a whole army for him, if he had to − no questions, no hesitation, no fear, no delays. And, once back from the battle, he would have Alva, and not waste any words along the way. 

Chevalier Ahayrre missed all those things meaningless to the elf − the flirting, the flattery, the passionate glances, the innuendos. But, given only some time, he would come to miss the coarse jokes, the loud voice, the strong arms and the large hot body far more. Even worse, Ithildin feared he might too. 

But Kintaro knew none of this. He was consumed by longing, and neither the wild sex, nor the drinking, nor the exhausting training did anything to dispel it. 

“Forget about them, Kintaro. It’s for the best.” Not getting an answer, Kismet went on. “I thought I’d check... There is no Lady Aldys Alanis in Trianess.” 

“I never asked for her papers,” Kintaro shrugged. 

And then the boy asked slyly, “They are not women, are they?” 

Kintaro felt a frisson of discomfort, but showed nothing. Even if anyone suspected his mistresses of being male, it wasn’t such an end all. 

“What makes you think that?” he asked casually. 

“My people have been watching the house. It’s not obvious, but if you keep watching them...” 

The nomad’s eyes narrowed. This was none too good. 

“There is no Lady Aldis Alanys. But there does exist a famous Creedan poet, Chevalier Ahayrre.” Kismet stressed the last syllable of Alva’s last name in the Arislani fashion, not the second. “And then there is his lover, the elf. A year ago, they got involved in a scandal, and then, within a short while, they disappeared. There were rumors they were both dead. Creedan literature would not have recovered from such a loss!” 

“Interesting story,” said Kintaro, feigning indifference. “What I don’t get is what it is to me.” 

“It’s that your ladies can be banished from the capital any time at all.” 

Within a second, the boy was pinned down on the bed, and Kintaro leaned over him scowling nastily. 

“You go ahead and try harming them in any way, and I’ll wring your neck. Won’t give a shit that you are a prince.” 

The Khaliddin tried to smile and turn everything into a joke, but fear had made him go green. There was something else in his eyes too... guilt, perhaps? 

“Talk to me,” said Kintaro. He was quiet and he was terrifying. His fingers dug into the boy’s shoulders. 

Kismet babbled. “Taro, it wasn’t me... If I found out about it, anybody else could... Just have to pay. Yesterday night, the Grand Vizier had a visitor. Doesn’t matter who, he was just a middleman. It was hard to hear, but I did catch the name of Chevalier Ahayrre. And also... they spoke about Targhai, the chief of Enqins. Arislan is looking for allies in the wild steppe. The Vizier has his own spies.” 

Kintaro, darker than a storm cloud, leapt off the bed. Kismet watched him from the corner, torn between fearing Kintaro and fearing for Kintaro. 

“Taro, don’t go there,” he barely managed. “Don’t go, please... I...” 

The anger in the stare of the Essanti chief burned him through. The Khaliddin barely managed to go on, voice shaking, “I had sent my people there, with horses and permits. They both will be escorted wherever they need to go, under my protection. Nobody will harm them, not even my brother. Taro...“ 

“How many did you send?” 

“T-ten.” 

“Your men are already dead, if the Enqins are indeed here. You better be praying that nothing bad happens to my redhead. Or else I’ll be back. And there will be blood!” Then Kintaro took a ring off his finger. 

**12.**

He burst into the royal stables, brought out the first horse he saw, shouting, “Khaliddin’s orders!,” and, within a few minutes, was already galloping down the night streets. Drying laundry and low arches barely cleared his lowered head. Half an hour later, he was in Zeinab Street and saw the rising flames. The house of Chevalier Ahayrre was on fire. 

It was as a jagged Enqin arrow had pierced his heart. The Redhead, Doll-face... where were they? Had they managed to hide? Were they safe? They weren’t bad in a fight, especially Ithildin, and the Enqins would have likely wanted to take them alive, but still... 

He saw men in city guard’s uniform blocking the street. So they were not in any rush to offer help, only to make sure nobody else did. Kintaro jumped off his horse, pushed past a guard and bolted into a side street to get to the house from the back. 

The air was hot and sooty. Breaking into a run, Kintaro pulled out a sword, and poised a dagger. He was scanning the dark alleyways, rooftops, windows and walls. There was no sign of the enemy, and all the neighbors hid, afraid, in their homes. 

He heard a twang of a bow and a short scream of agony. Kintaro turned a corner and found himself in the middle of a fight. Right before his eyes, a man sliced off one adversary’s head with a scimitar and cut through another one, shoulder to waist. This Enqin was felled by a knife Kintaro threw at him. He had been dressed like an Arislani, but a costume could not hide the wide cheekbones, long hair and the weapons of a steppe-dweller. 

It was light as day. The house had become a colossal pyre. Kintaro glimpsed several bloodied bodies at a distance, and then a storm of arrows was unleashed. A few went past him, a few he had deflected with his sword, but one had hit him in the shoulder before he could hide back behind the corner. Leaving it in, he broke off the bit that stuck out, and pulled out one more knife, right in time − someone else was upon him, scimitar flashing. All feeling was gone from Kintaro, only the cold fighting fury remained. 

Kintaro wiped his sword on the clothes of the man he killed, and slid along the wall towards another dark figure. Within a minute, a third Enqin was dispatched. A fourth attacker got a green-feathered arrow in his throat. It had been shot from a side street, from behind an upturned cart, and, for a second, Kintaro thought he had seen a pale delicate face, but did not permit himself to get distracted. 

One more Enqin was laid down by his sword, and the arrows got two more. The feathers on these arrows were not green but black. The elf had run out of arrows, probably, and he had gone to collect the enemy’s. 

Four men attacked Kintaro, howling, and it would not have gone well for him, if three palace guards did not come to the rescue. One of them, Kintaro was not surprised to see, was Sigmar. 

“Wild night, by Llyd!” roared Sigmar, sword waving. 

Soon it was all over. Kintaro clenched his teeth, and pulled out the remainder of the broken arrow from his shoulder. He looked round. “Two got away. How many had there been?” 

“Fifteen,” said Ithildin, coming out from the barricade. 

He held his elven longbow. He was shirtless. Blood trickled from a cut on his neck. Chevalier Ahayrre came out next, sword at the ready and covered in soot, shirt torn, but seemingly unharmed. 

“I just cannot believe it!” he babbled. “We got nearly massacred, and the city watch never bothered to show up. Kintaro, damn you, I have you to thank for saving my ass again!” 

Kintaro steadied himself against a wall. Relief fell over him, like an avalanche. He did not realize just how tightly wound he had been, as long as he did not know what had happened to his precious boys. 

“You are wounded,” said the elf. His silver eyes were inscrutable. 

“You too. Just a scratch. Sigmar, how many men have you got?” 

“Martin and Nero, and that’s it. Everybody else dead or wounded. These guys who attacked you, they are, like, bat-shit crazy demons, or something.” 

“Take my friends to Erizahn, I’ll be there by morning. Let’s meet in their only tavern. You can’t trust the city watch. Leave the wounded to them, but don’t get caught yourself. I still have scores to settle.” 

He did an about turn, and disappeared down the street that the two surviving Enqins had taken. It took Kintaro nearly an hour to catch up to them. Kintaro kept hoping they would not separate. That would have made catching them harder, and he had no intention of letting any Enqin swine go free. Not one of those whom Targhai had sent after his sweet redhead was ever coming back. 

When they noticed Kintaro alone in pursuit, the Enqins rushed him together. The fight was short and bloody, and Kintaro’s victory had cost him dearly. Blood streamed into his eyes, flowed down his leg from a saber cut, his wounded shoulder burn, and he felt dizzy. He had to stop the blood, and get his wounds seen to, or he wasn’t going anywhere far. 

He looked around him and swore. It was late at night, and deserted, all the shops were closed. There wasn’t a sign for a barber surgeon or an apothecary, nothing. It wouldn’t do to drop down in the middle of the street. 

He felt a silver ring in his pocket. The Small Palace? Why the hell not. There was a score he ought to settle there as well. 

...Never, in his entire short life, had Khaliddin Kismet experienced a terror so complete, as when he saw the dark tall figure in his bedroom. Amazing, how thoughts could swarm! He cursed himself for not keeping a bodyguard in his bedroom, for not ordering Kintaro arrested, if he ever were to show up in the palace, and, finally, for not bothering to lock the door to the secret chamber. He never thought about it, and now... 

Screaming would have been pointless; he know every well how quick the Essanti could be. Besides, his tongue got stuck in his throat. 

“Please don’t Taro, please ...” He managed. “I didn’t do it, whatever it was... I only wanted to help...” 

The dark figure staggered. 

“Don’t be afraid, silly. It’s all over,” said Kintaro hoarsely and stepped into the light. 

Kismet cried out when he saw that Kintaro was covered in blood. 

“Call Darius, tell him to patch me up. If he is up to it.” 

The mage winced in mild disgust, but did heal Kintaro’s wounds. Meanwhile, Kismet found some clean clothes for him. After Darius left, Kintaro grabbed the boy’s shoulder. 

“I owe you one, pretty-eyes. It would have gone pretty badly, if not for your help.” 

Kintaro chose not to mention that − had Kismet been upfront in the first place − there might have been no need of help. But who knew. Fifteen Enqins. Kintaro shivered. Not like the sons-of-bitches would ever take him alive. 

“So we’ll never meet again?” whispered the Prince, hiding his face on Kintaro’s shoulder. Kintaro pulled away carefully. The wound had healed, but he could still feel it. 

He answered the boy gently, “No, my pretty.” He kissed Kismet hard on the lips. “My destiny lies somewhere else. But I’ll remember you.” 

“Where are you all off to now?” 

“I don’t know. The world is large.” 

The boy was trying to draw out their last moments together. 

“Listen, what about that one... The Tharn. The tow-head... what’s his name?” 

“Sigmar,” Kintaro suppressed a smile. “You ought to take him back to your guard. He is the best fighter I’ve seen around here. By the way, he is pretty sweet on you,” he added casually. “But I wouldn’t take up with him if I were you. Hung like a...” 

There was a flicker of eagerness in the prince’s face. “And you know this how?” 

“Bathhouse.” Kintaro’s smile was so lewd, he was clearly lying. 

That lewd smile haunted Khaliddin Kismet’s dreams for a long time. 

  

“And fare thee well, nomad, fare thee well.” Sigmar’s colossal hand pressed heavily on Kintaro’s shoulder. “Off you go, to your ladies.” He snorted at where, in the corner of a tavern, Alva napped on Ithildin’s shoulder. They had both cleaned up a bit, but nobody could take them for women anymore. “A pretty sweet deal you got there.” 

“Off you go yourself. We’ll be fine without you.” Then, Kintaro added as an afterthought. “The Khaliddin had asked after you. Drop by to see him in the morning. He is gonna need a bodyguard, and I had sung your praises, the way you had fought.” 

“Ask after me, did he?” Sigmar scratched his beard and looked at Kintaro sideways to see if he were joking. But Kintaro remained impassive. “I will, then.” 

They hugged. Sigmar left with his soldiers, and Kintaro went to join Ithildin and Alva. 

“Now you reek of magic.” The elf spoke quietly, not to wake Alva, and, suddenly gave Kintaro a sweetest smile. It seemed to say, “I am glad you are with us,” and it made Kintaro’s heart beat faster. 

“The sun will rise in an hour. It’s about ten miles from here to the portal, and it’s a good road. We should get some horses... “ 

“And where are we off to?” 

“The world is large, Doll-face.” 

Kintaro smiled, as the sense of the fullness of life engulfed him. That’s how he always felt next to the redhead and his prude of an elf − the two he valued above all the riches of the world. 

  

_The end of Chapter 6_

  

  

**Author’s Notes**

The novel is more than halfway through, it’s high time to hear some feedback. Or else there is no point in updating regularly (or updating at all). Yeah, I know that some authors don’t reply to readers’ comments and maybe don’t appreciate them at all, but that’s not me. I always replay even to smilies and thank you’s. It’s very important to me to hear what you think about my characters, about the way they act, about the way they make you laugh or cry. 

Yeah, I know readers often don’t know what to say. I don’t need [praise](http://humorhub.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/Kitty-you-are-so-beautiful.jpg) (OK, maybe I do, but it’s never my main goal). So there is a list of questions – a good friend of mine said that it would be very helpful for readers to know what the author is really interested to hear. 

  * Was it a big surprise that Alva was in secret service? Does it remind you too much of ‘Nightrunner’ series by Lynn Flewelling? I swear to God, I didn’t read it before writing this chapter xD
  * What do you think of Khaliddin Kismet? Do you hate him, or like him, or pity him, or envy him?
  * Do you think less of Kintaro for sleeping with Kismet? Can you forgive a character being unfaithful? (because it clearly doesn’t matter to me, but matters for my characters – and many of my readers too)
  * Do you want to read some side-stories about Sigmar with Kintaro and Kismet? Do you remember who Sigmar is at all? XDD
  * Anything else you’d like to point out or discuss. Any questions are OK, no question is silly or unwanted.

_Yours truly, Tiamat_




**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Secret Service of Creede is nothing like the Secret Service of US, known all over the world. Unfortunately, there was no other suitable way to translate the name of the Creedan special clandestine organization, with the responsibilities of foreign intelligence, counter-intelligence and national security. It's not in any way a secret police dealing with dissenters, it's like the FBI and CIA combined and medieval.
> 
> I'm working on a novel (in Russian) called 'Tanith's Cookbook' where the heroine got suddenly involved with the Secret Service and one of its agents. Also there is a nice novel called 'Murder by the footlights' written by my fan LaLuna2015 after my world and my characters (with my permission and blessing, of course) where a sexy and witty agent of the Secret Service operates.


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